


Tyndyr, Petyr, Adman, Lies

by Ophelia_Raine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Chick-Flick Moments, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Smut, barely-there plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 106,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: Sansa Stark hates mess. So when she uncharacteristically agreed to a one-off Tyndyr tryst, the second-last thing she expected was VERY memorable sex from an experienced older man with an infuriating smirk and sexy grey-green eyes.But the last thing she expected was for him to walk into her life and complicate the hell out of everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And so here's a completely different romp. No slow burn here! Petyr is rude and crude and unapologetically a bastard, but things are about to get more complicated...

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous!”

He stared at her, the seconds deafening between them. She stared back, trying to work out if he was for real or if he used that line on every single, desperate broad he’s ever met this way.

“You must be Petyr,” she replied at last, aiming for sarcastic but only sounding bemused. She thought about rolling her eyes, but the moment was over. She watched as his face changed. The open-mouth awe vanished and in its place was a decidedly cockier smirk. 

“And I hope you’re Alayne,” he drawled, his eyes travelling lazily over the contours of her face, her body. She was left in no doubt as to the state of her undress in his mind. His eyes caught hers and the smirk deepened. Approval.

She had literally asked for this, she reminded herself.

“Come in,” she said airily, turning on her bare heel to saunter back into her apartment with studied nonchalance. She watched as he took in her studio, as he glanced at the designer magazines she had meticulously scattered not fifty seconds ago. French Jazz was playing softly in the background — she had taken out all the jazz numbers in her playlist with saxophones, not wanting to evoke the cheesy feels of Kenny G. He stared at her music collection (the ones she didn’t hide), and then at her books. She watched as his fingertips brushed past their spines like a caress, before settling on one of them.

“I’m reading this at the moment.”

“And what do you think,” she asked politely.

He shrugged. He was staring again, a small smile on his lips as if to say, “Are we really going to do this?”

Bloody hell, he was rakish. And aggravatingly confident. And not repugnant at all. And older than she had expected. _Experienced._  

She felt a familiar twinge somewhere low. She recognised it even with the butterflies going bat-shit in her insides.

“Wine?”

“What do you have.”

“A merlot.” She gestured to the bench top, and tip toed to reach the top shelf where the good wine glasses were. Her dress crept up in the effort and she felt his eyes running up the length of her legs.

They stood across from each other, sipping their wine, the bench top a natural barrier between them. His eyes never left hers, the stare insouciant and daring. She willed herself to stare back coolly, to not flinch from its intensity. He meant to unnerve her and she would not give him that satisfaction. He grinned suddenly.

“You’re nervous,” he observed. It was a bald statement of fact.

She shrugged. “And you’re not?”

He shook his head slowly, his eyes still locked on to hers. His smirk widened just before he raised his wine glass to his lips. 

_Bloody hell._

She stared at his mouth, at that Van Dyke beard, and wondered how that would feel like against her sex. _O wonderful friction..._

But first, occupational health and safety.

She cleared her throat. “When were you… when was the last time you…”

“I’m clean,” he returned, as if she had just asked about the time. 

“And I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

“I was tested on Tuesday,” he replied cordially. He fished an envelope out from his back pocket. It was still sealed.

“Go ahead,” he handed it to her. “Open it.”

Alayne took the envelope from him gingerly. She retrieved the letter opener from her kitchen drawer and wedged the tip in before slicing it open in one smooth stroke. He poured himself another half glass as she opened the letter. 

She scanned the letter, then stopped, then read it again but this time more slowly. She mouthed the words soundlessly, a small crease appearing between her brows.  

“What?”

“It says…” She looked up to face him, her blue eyes now startlingly bright. They brimmed with concern, pity, and not a little tinge of fear. 

“Oh Petyr…” she breathed, fighting a quiver in her lower lip… “How long, do you know?” she whispered.

“Let me see that!” he snapped as he rounded the benchtop and grabbed the letter from her hands. She watched as his eyes quickly scanned its contents, as understanding finally dawned on him.

“You’re good,” he conceded.

“Why, thank you,” she smirked, raising her glass at him before taking a swig.

 “And what about you, Miss Stone?” he purred, slowly taking a step forward, grazing that elusive personal boundary between safety and seduction. “What secrets does your body hold?”

“I’m clean as well.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

He got her there. 

“Yes,” she answered coolly even as her heartbeat took it up a notch.

“And why should I?”

“Because I don’t lie about these things.”

“Oh, you’ve got to do better than that.”

She was starting to feel uneasy now. This could be over even before it began.

“I…” she tried again. Think, _think._

He took another step forward, his green-grey eyes burning into hers. “Yes?”

“I…” Her mind was going blank, seared clean by the intensity of that gaze. He was uncomfortably close. She caught a whiff of his cologne and it smelled expensive and exquisite and dangerous.  

_Ye gods..._

“I haven't been with anyone in two years!” And there it was, the utterly mortifying truth. Alayne felt herself freeze once the words tumbled out of her. It couldn’t have been worse if she had bleated instead about feeling desperate and horny and insecure about being out of practice. All true, by the way — _except you’re not supposed to actually_ say _that._

“So I’m your first Tyndyr!” Petyr replied softly, doing the math. He looked like the cat who got the cream. “Well, I am flattered.”

Alayne suddenly wanted to punch that smug sonofabitch. She scowled.

“Two years…” he mused, and gave a low whistle. “That is _quite_ the build up.” The grin on his face turned positively wicked.

She clenched her right fist, then forced her hand to relax. She felt that twinge within her descend even lower and start to throb.

“Well…” he murmured, and it felt like a caress. “We’d better get started then.” 

She watched as he lifted the glass to his lips and drained it. She watched as he set it down. Then she watched as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before stepping forward, closing the distance between them in an instant. She felt both his hands on her face as he tilted her head. And then his mouth crushed hers, swallowing her surprise.

She felt her legs turn to jelly.

Her hands gripped his face, instinctively holding him to her. She could not get enough, the way he plundered her. Their tongues mingled and she tasted merlot and mint. That tongue, that tongue, that wicked tongue… Oh, but she could not get enough, the way his hands fell from her face, skimming her back, her sides before gripping her waist and pulling her suddenly to him so she could feel the unmistakeable length of him, discernible even under the layers of denim. At some point, she found herself pressed into the fridge, the coolness against her back making her jump before he ground his hips deliciously into her ache, their mouths still joined in a dance.

He pulled back without warning, his eyes now dark, his hair tousled from her efforts.

“Bed. Now.” he ordered. 

They landed on her brand new sheets, the ones she had splurged on because of the bazillion thread count. She tugged impatiently at his T-shirt until he sat up and peeled it off in one quick motion. She reached out to touch him and smiled when he sucked in his breath as her hand grazed his nipples.

“You’ve got a nice body,” she admitted grudgingly. His ego needed no encouragement, but she took in the strong, toned arms, the flat stomach, the V of his frame. “Not bad at all,” she conceded, “for an old man.”

“Old man?” he laughed, and then his eyes glinted. “You’ve really asked for it now, Miss Stone.” He chuckled again, and it sounded like velvet and the promise of sin. She shivered involuntarily, expectantly.

Slowly his hand skimmed her side. She waited as it found the hem of her dress and languidly lifted it up, then waited some more as his fingers skimmed the inside of her thigh before hooking underneath the thin strap of her sopping Elle MacPherson panty.

She held her breath, and his eyes locked into hers then. He watched her, even as his fingers pulled the flimsy material down and tossed it behind him carelessly. Watched even as his thumb slowly brushed up the length of her ridiculously wet slit before stopping just short of her nub. She wanted to cry out from sheer frustration then, but that would only please him all the more, the bastard.

He watched her breathe shallowly, took in the rise and fall of her chest. He made sure he had her fullest attention, the bastard. And then his finger entered her, and she let out a sigh.

“You like that, don’t you…” he purred. “Two years…”

He inserted another one without warning then, and she arched her back, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. Oh but she was slick, and his fingers were wonderfully, wickedly talented and long for a man no taller than herself. They plunged inside of her, slowly at first, and then quickening to a relentless pace. Each blunt jab at that magical spot a promise, a promise, a promise of how much sweeter the real deal could be. Her face was flushed and she felt herself cresting like never before. Like _never_ before. 

He leaned down suddenly, bending to catch her lips with his, his nimble, nasty fingers still working her folds like a machine. She kissed him back ardently, then slipped him her tongue and she heard him groan before his thumb found her nub — that crazy, sensitive bundle of nerves — and it flicked and teased at a maddening pace until she cried out into his mouth. He continued working his fingers in her, carrying her through that shuddering, his mouth swallowing her cries.

He landed heavily beside her after, casually wiping his hand on her bazillion thread count sheets, and grinning like the cheshire cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. Got that one out of my system! Aaaand comments from the floor, please. I'd love to hear from you!


	2. Chapter 2

Long showers. Needs must. 

It wasn’t very often that Petyr Baelish found himself distracted from work. But here he was, standing in his shower for the third morning in a row, tossing himself off like a teenager. Fucking embarrassing.  

The moment he left her apartment, he knew he was in trouble. It had taken every ounce of his considerable ego and self control not to turn around and knock on her door again. And every stray moment after that, he found himself itching to tap on her profile and ping her. It got so bad, he had to take the damn shortcut off his phone screen so he wouldn’t keep checking his Tyndyr messages in the fucking middle of client meetings.

He even accepted a new last-minute Tyndyr two nights ago, despite the unholy distance from the gym and the fact that he had a dawn flight the next day. He had rocked up at the arse-end of Sydney because the chick was passably hot. Blonde bombshell, in that vanilla sort of way. All sun-kissed skin and perky tits, and a mouth that could suck-start a Harley. All the promise of one long dirty night and a short sex hangover before he was back to work like a new man, cured from this schoolboy obsession.  

And yet he had been  _bored_ twenty minutes in. 

What was it about Alayne Stone, anyway? Petyr was damned if he knew. She wasn’t, what he’d call, _experienced_ … but she was a damn natural. That was probably the biggest turn on for him, that and the fact that she was so fucking responsive. _Genuinely_ responsive. The noises she made when she was close, wrenched out of her almost in spite of herself...

He felt himself harden again. 

And she had been drop-dead gorgeous. Petyr was never in short supply of stunning women — he was very, very good at his job, which made him both obscenely rich and thus predictably attractive. It never bothered him that he hadn’t been in a relationship in over a decade, that the women were transient and transactional. One night, that was all he ever gave any of them — whether they were young, old, single, divorced, married, complicated, or dead easy. One night, one afternoon, one fling, one go. And then he'd never call them again. Even the tenacious stalker types. _Especially_ those. 

It was a rule he had made for himself years ago. And some rules were made to never be broken.

But then he had turned up at her door, and she had taken his breath away. That hair, that siren-red hair and the way it had tumbled down her back like thick, velvet curtains when he could finally reach in and slip that precarious pin from her head. How it had looked, splayed over her pillow when she finally opened herself for him. How it moved against the silk when he pounded into her finally, when his steely self-control snapped like thin glass.

It had taken all he had not to come the moment he slid into her, sheathing himself in her to the hilt. That had been bloody glorious. That, and the way her hands had gripped his bare arse like a possessive vice, commanding him to move. She had cracked a joke then, and he had laughed, which only added to that frisson, that delirium of his arousal. How the hell he'd managed to last as long as he did, he’ll never know. But thank the gods he'd held on long enough to hear that sweet, sweet moan rise from deep within that magnificent, tight body. When she came, he had felt such triumph, he remembered. The moment she started contracting around him, he had emptied himself into her, his rhythm wild and erratic by then, his mind blown white. It was one of the best orgasms he’d had in the longest time.

Fully hard again. _Dammit_.

Twenty minutes later, and he was finally out the door, texting Cersei as he punched the buttons in the elevator. She would give him grief, but he already had an alibi ready and besides, he was only going to be ten minutes late, max. No matter how she carried on today, both of them knew that she needed him to seal the deal, that he was the best chance the agency had.  

 

* * *

 

“You ready?” Tyrion asked, already knowing the answer.

Petyr smirked in response, and the two of them entered the building. 

The Ministry of the Prime Minister and Cabinet were housed in one of the newer looking buildings in the parliamentary zone, although it was by no means ostentatious. If someone like Cersei had any say on design, it’d be a fucking palace —she was never one to be backward about dick waving. _Why have power when you won’t flaunt it?_ That’s her personal motto, right after _I like to screw you after I screw my brother_.

Tyrion introduced them both to the receptionist, and they proceeded with the necessary tedium of security checks. Petyr’s shoes had the nasty habit of setting off the beepers, so he had to suffer the indignity of removing them and leaving them in the tray. He noticed the security officer with her hair drawn severely back in a matronly bun, and how her eyes had flicked over his form with a hint of appreciation. He was wearing his latest favourite deep navy suit today, the one he had made earlier this year during his work trip in Italy. He smiled at the guard, tinging his grin with a leer and watched as she stiffened slightly before frowning. Evidently, she took her job quite seriously.

“Stop trying to make Security blush, Baelish. She’s too good for you,” Tyrion quipped loud enough for her to hear. She scowled in response, and flatly handed both of them their passes. They each waved their pass over the sensor before the turnstile admitted them, Tyrion narrowly avoiding getting smacked in the face after Baelish had his turn. Standard Life of Dwarf with Twat Friends.

“Stand here,” she commanded them in a surprisingly high, nasal voice. “Someone will escort you to your floor shortly." 

They were eventually escorted to one of the nondescript meeting rooms on one of the top floors in the building. Tyrion and Petyr got to work then, setting up the laptop and arranging all the presentation folders in the room. They fell into their natural rhythm, having worked together on and off on business pitches for years until more recently, when Tyrion finally got promoted so he could handle new clients without a babysitter. 

Eventually, Tyrion poured himself a glass of water from the perfectly boring glass pitcher in the middle of the room. He didn’t bother offering Petyr a glass because he knew he wouldn’t take it. You don’t drink before a pitch, because you don’t want to leave the room in the middle of a hot discussion just to run to the little boy’s room.

One of the conference room doors finally opened and a tall, slim older woman with auburn hair glided elegantly into the room.

“My name is Catelyn Stark,” she smiled cordially and shook their hands. “I’m the General Manager for Public Affairs.” She introduced the other two staffers behind them who were instantly forgettable even as Petyr committed their names to memory out of professional habit. 

“I won’t be able to stay for this meeting, as I’ve just been called away to another matter so I do apologise. But I just wanted to come in to say hello. My young associate will be with you shortly — she’s just on a phone call. She has my every confidence, and is across the work that you do. She has been to every other meeting and so she is well placed to advise me.”

Petyr took the opportunity then to suss out the competition, even though he already had some intel. How many other agencies has the Ministry seen? When do they plan on making their decision? Have they been searching for a replacement full-service communications agency for long? Petyr took in everything — the way one of the staffers had turned away slightly when Catelyn answered that they had no preferences currently, the fact that one of their notes resembled an evaluation sheet already filled, possibly from a previous meeting. He could just make out the name of the company, written upside down, as his eyes flitted over the page. All this he did while giving every semblance of being wholly engaged with Catelyn Stark’s answers.

The thing that Petyr couldn’t quite place, however, was why Catelyn Stark looked familiar. Had he met her before and if so, where…

“Ah, here she is!” Catelyn broke away from her last thought, and moved aside to introduce the tall willowy figure behind her. “Mr Baelish, Mr Lannister, I’d like you to meet my colleague, Sansa Stark."   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Friday night, and another fun romp but this time as Petyr. I've not written from his POV before, but it turned out quite a fun exercise. Happy Friday from my side of the world! xx And drop me a helloooo... :) I love hellos (also because it gives me a chance to stumble across new fanfics! Yay new things!)


	3. Chapter 3

_Unbelievable_.

But there he was in her meeting room, roguish hair now tamed and parted to the side, his trademark Van Dyke beard impeccable, his cool, impersonal gaze belied by the impudent, _knowing_ smile playing on his lips. Oh, but he looked good, and he knew it. The steel-blue pinstripe suit complemented his silvering temples and set off the grey in his eyes perfectly. Sansa remembered those eyes, remembered how they drilled right into her as _he_ was drilling into her…

Her boss was staring at her now.

“Do you know each other?”

“No,” Sansa replied flatly while mentally retrieving her jaw from the floor. She noted how his eyes glinted as he strove to hide a smile, and fought a scowl off her face. “I thought for a moment that he was someone else I’d met once, but I was mistaken.” She looked coolly at him and the full meaning of her words were not lost on him. He was smiling now.

“Petyr Baelish,” he introduced himself, his Irish brogue now clipped although his voice was still sinfully soft. He shook her hand and she almost jumped when she felt a finger stroke across her palm. She looked at him sharply but his face was a picture of innocence and professionalism. “This is Tyrion Lannister,” he introduced and watched benignly as they shook hands. Sansa sensed, rather than knew, that he was enjoying himself far more than she was at their predicament and she was starting to seethe inwardly. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” smiled Catelyn, and Sansa was torn between relief and dismay. Another round of handshaking and well wishes before the conference room door closed behind her, and Sansa was left alone with Jeyne, Gilly, Tyrion, and him.

She turned pointedly towards Tyrion then and started peppering him with questions. _What is your role in L &S?_ (One of the business development managers.) _Your last name Lannister… are you one of the Lannisters who partly founded Lion & Stag?_ (Uh… not quite. That would primarily be the work of his older sister and father.) _And how long have you been active in the government space?_ (Well, our competitors would argue too long, but we’ve been handling government accounts on local, state, and national levels for over twenty years now, and we’re well placed to blah blah blah…)

She never took her eyes off Tyrion, who must be starting to get a neck ache from politely staring up at her to answer her questions. She considered sitting down to ease his discomfort, but that would be awkward as well — her sitting down like some queen while he remained standing to talk to her. There was a break in conversation as Tyrion reached over for some water, and Sansa flicked her eyes over to Petyr before she could stop herself. He, too, seemed deep in conversation with Jeyne and Gilly. But just at that moment, as if sensing her, he looked across and their eyes locked. He wet his lips slowly, deliberately then, and she felt simultaneously like hurling something across the room at him and running her tongue across his bottom lip... 

Mercifully, the rest of the room started to fill with latecomers from the other teams in the Corporate Affairs and Communications department, each muttering their apologies because a previous meeting had typically overrun its course. Another flurry of introductions before they hastily took their seats.  

He smiled widely to the room, flashing his teeth. Sansa sensed the girls instantly warm to him, their bodies leaning forward at the table in anticipation, their notepads at the ready. She wanted to scream.

Well, two can play this game, she decided. She still had the upper hand. As long as she was on the Selection Committee and she had Catelyn’s ear, she would hold sway on whether Lion & Stag Strategic made the cut. Emboldened, Sansa straightened her back and raised her head imperiously. In her heels, she was now half a head taller than him at least — a fact she accentuated as she coolly brushed past him on the way to the seat at the furthest end of the room from him. She blew lightly on the back of his neck for good measure and even though his smile and gaze remained fixed on the girls, she saw his jaw tighten and she grinned to herself.

_You may be experienced, but business is business and you’re paying court to me now_ , thought Sansa as she sat down regally at the head of the table. _So go ahead, you smug sonofabitch. Give your best shot and see if I care._  

* * *

Godsdammit, but she did care. _Of course_ she would care. 

Sansa groaned, rubbing both temples with her thumbs in frustration. He had been very good, they’d both been. Petyr and Tyrion had artfully caught every curve ball she had thrown at them, and then some. Their client list had already been impressive on their website, but then they took the room through some of the work they were doing for current clients and Sansa was floored. L&S Strategic were head and shoulders above anything she had seen so far in the industry — _plus_ they had an arsenal of very serious toys that Sansa privately could not wait to get her hands on if she could. All for a ridiculously reasonable price. 

She would be a fool not to put them at the head of the queue. It would be a huge disservice to the Ministry if she didn’t at least recommend them.

But then she would have to work with Baelish.

He had been formidable at that meeting, Sansa sighed resignedly. An undeniable force that swept everyone else along in that room. The girls were putty in his hands by Act One. He could have been selling them a donkey and they would have bought five — they were practically eating out of his hand, tittering and blushing every time he paid them any personal attention, calling them all by name. Both he and Tyrion had been a fabulous double act, Tyrion with his droll wit that won over the smattering of men in the room, and Petyr with his unexpected schoolboy charm that oddly endeared him, in spite of her best efforts to remain aloof and suspicious. He was far too old to try that sort of thing, she would have thought — except it worked. Very, very well. It was a masterful performance. Magnetic.

Gods damn him, but it had been sexy as hell to watch him in business mode. To watch him fire up and know that his passion was just as white hot — if not steamier —in the bedroom…

How. The hell. Was she going to work with him!

She could always come clean of course, she reasoned. Conflict of interest, giving L&S the job when their attractive business manager had just given a Selection Committee member multiple mind-blowing orgasms earlier in the week and her legs were still wobbly. Except how on earth was she going to explain him to her family? Sansa Stark, golden child, arranging a sordid one-night stand with a perfect stranger through something as skanky as Tyndyr.

Her father would freak. Her mother would just be deeply disappointed… and between the two, Sansa dreaded the latter far more.

But maybe she didn’t have to work with him, she reasoned back. He’s the salesman, not the account manager. Traditionally, agencies — especially large ones like theirs—kept that kind of thing quite separate. As Prime Minister and Cabinet, their account would be huge, so maybe there would be a team managing different types of communication needs. And Petyr would be nowhere near the day to day operations once the account was theirs.

Sansa ignored the twinge of disappointment at the thought.

Not for the first time today, she opened her desk drawer and stared at their business cards. That’s another thing now, she sighed. On Tyndyr, she was just Alayne Stone, and he was Petyr B. There was anonymity and secrecy — no contact numbers, no real-world details, no complications. She had done well to leave it as a one-off that night. Certain that she would never see him again, she had abandoned all her inhibitions — or as many as she dared to. She was still a prude in many ways. And then she had closed the door behind him, sated and reborn and safe in the knowledge that no one else knew.

But now she had his business card. And because decorum demanded it, she had to give hers in return. She stared at the elegant card, cut whimsically as a square in heavy, expensive card stock. Felt his name raised in embossed print and without quite meaning to, she memorised his number.   

* * *

    

12:05am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Hello, Alayne.

 

12:06am

SANSA STARK

If this is who I think it is, you shouldn’t be doing this.

 

12:06am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Doing what, exactly?

 

12:06am

SANSA STARK

Contacting a member of the Selection Committee.

 

12:07am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

 

12:07am

SANSA STARK

Oh really. Then how did you get my number?

 

12:08am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

A friend found a card at a delightful meeting today. 

You know, power dressing really suits you. 

The only pity about the pants was how they hid

those gorgeous long legs of yours. Could you 

wear those killer heels the next time we meet?

 

12:10am

SANSA STARK

What makes you think there will be a next time?

 

12:10am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

We’re very good. I’m very good.

 

12:11am

SANSA STARK

You’re bloody arrogant, that’s what you are.

 

12:11am

UNKNOWN NUMBER 

 

 

: D Not without good reason, sweetheart.

 

12:14am

SANSA STARK

You know, we really shouldn’t be talking about

work. Especially when we’re in the middle of this

tender. You could seriously jeopardise your own 

chances of winning this thing. And you’re putting

me in a difficult position as it is.

 

12:15am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

You’re absolutely right.

 

12:15am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Let’s not talk.

 

12:15am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

And I can put you in an infinitely more comfortable…

position.

 

12:16am

SANSA STARK

Gods, you’re such a sleaze!

 

12:16am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

You wound me, sweetling. ;-) 

 

 

So. Are you still in that power suit?

 

12:17am

SANSA STARK

None of your business.

 

12:18am

SANSA STARK

No.

 

12:18am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

What a shame. What are you wearing then?

 

12:19am

SANSA STARK

It depends. What turns you off?

 

12:20am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

When it comes to you, nothing at all.

 

12:21am

SANSA STARK

I am wearing my ugliest, stinkiest flannel pyjamas. 

With pink bunnies.

And unicorns. And rainbows. 

 

12:21am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

I’m intrigued.

 

12:22am

SANSA STARK

It’s seriously revolting stuff. It’s got pasta stains on

it from my TV dinner. I’m a real slob, too.

 

12:22am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Sounds delicious.

 

12:23am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Are you wearing those heels?

 

12:23am

SANSA STARK

Gods, you’re incorrigible!

 

12:24am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

No, just genuinely curious. Doing anything tonight?

 

12:24am

SANSA STARK

No. Just planning on a quiet night in.

Going to bed soon, actually.

 

12:25am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

A quiet night? Well that’s disappointing. But 

that can be fixed in a hurry. As for going to bed soon,

that sounds like a fabulous idea. Mind if I join you?

 

 

 

 

12:28am

SANSA STARK

Where are you texting me from, exactly.

 

12:28am

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Open your door. 


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re not wearing flannel.” 

“You’re not supposed to be here.” 

Petyr drank in the sight before him. Oh, but this was a _good_ mistake, perhaps one of the best he was ever going to make. All niggling misgivings evaporated at the sight before him. He took in her innocent-white strappy camisole, how it wrapped her body like a second skin. How it clung to her full, high breasts and flattened her bare, dark nipples before cropping just above her belly button to reveal that flat, toned stomach. How her cotton pyjama shorts caught on her hips and ended tantalisingly below her panty line. He imagined how it skimmed the taut buttocks that he couldn’t yet see, imagined how his hands would enjoy a-wandering, pushing underneath the slight flare of those leg holes to find her wet and waiting… 

His eyes drifted down and then his mouth went dry. She was wearing those fuck-me heels. _Fuuuuuuuuck…_

_“_ Nice shoes,” he commented mildly but the blood was pooling to his cock and he felt almost light-headed with want and greed.  

"Oh these old things," she shrugged, and twisted her body to peer at her heels behind her shoulder, affording him a peek at the rest of her figure, the curve of her back and that delicious derrierre...  

Petyr took it all back. She wasn't inexperienced at all. She knew _exactly_ what she was doing.  

He took a step forward and stopped when she placed a hand on his chest. His smile was cocksure but he wondered if she could feel how fast his telltale heart was going. 

“Did you plan this?” Her voice was low as her eyes searched his for answers. 

“Did I plan…” 

“Did you sleep with me before, knowing that I was going to be on the panel?” 

His lips quirked. “I’m flattered you think I’m _that_ skilled in manipulation, but no. The dull truth is, I really had no idea we’d meet again — and under those circumstances especially. 

“I am, however,” he purred, “ _quite_ the opportunist.” 

He ventured another step closer and this time he felt no resistance. His face was mere inches from hers now but he will not touch her, stringing out the wait for both of them. He stared into her startling blue eyes and they mirrored the heat in his own.  

"You're very tall," he murmured.  

"And you're trouble," she hissed. "They're strict about these things. I could lose my job."  

"Would you like me to go?"  

"You should."  

"But do you _want_ me to?”  

Her silence was all the answer he needed. Snaking one hand into her hair and another around her waist, he pulled her to him roughly. Her face, her lips were a hair’s breadth away. And then he kissed her, softly at first until he felt her lips yield and part. And then with a low hum that came unbidden, he claimed her, their mouths hot and fused, their tongues finding each other.  

Whether he pushed them into the flat or she pulled him in, he did not know — only that his foot found the door and he kicked it shut behind him. Their mouths still meshed, their bodies locked in a fierce embrace, he eventually pushed her into the wall. Ever since he saw those heels this morning, he had been dreaming of nailing her to this very wall. Preferably with his bare, rigid cock.  

“The neighbours!” she managed to gasp. 

“Are not in,” he lied and his mouth claimed hers again. He had lost count of the number of women he’d bedded, rued the occasional tedium of foreplay, but with this woman — _this woman_ — everything felt headily, uncannily new. His hands dropped to her hips and he pulled them possessively to his so he could ground his aching, twitchy cock into her centre. He felt her kiss deepen in appreciation.  

He broke away from her, and she made a small throaty sound in protest that was quickly replaced by silence and a quickening of her breath as he trailed the length of her neck with hot, wet kisses. He lingered around her décolletage, skimming the edges of those wonderful mounds and taking his sweet time until he felt her hand firmly grip his and pull it up to cover her left breast.  

"Oh, I see," he replied and his voice was husky with want and knowing. Her breath hitched when he cupped her breast firmly, when thumb and finger started to roll the sweet bud of her nipple, twisting until he felt she was on the knife-edge of pain and pleasure. He brought his head down and with the point of his tongue, he circled her areola lazily before wrapping his mouth around the sensitive tip. He felt her shiver. Her nipples were straining against the cotton now, the fabric going damp as he sucked and teased. Helpfully, he peeled the skimpy little straps off her shoulder, first one, then the other. He peeled that innocent camisole down, freeing one heavy breast and then the other. He buried his face in them, licked them and laved them. And she smelled amazing. A heady mix of fruity shower gel and a musk that was all her own.   

And then slowly he travelled, hot wet kisses going down, down, leaving those beautiful breasts bereft for now as he sank lower. His fingers gripped the elastic of her waistband and he looked up to find her gazing down at him, her eyes unsure, her lids heavy with want. With a wicked smile he yanked her shorts down in one swift, practised motion, taking her panties with it.  

"I have to admit I was disappointed," he mused, "when we didn't get to do this the last time. It's been playing on my mind ever since, as if I'd flown all the way to the Royal Mansour yet neglected to... dine in."  He gazed at her sex in wonder and worship. French wax, _but of course_. As if she'd let her bush go wild. Such a proper little lady, and meticulous right down to her most intimate of intimates. He gazed at the neat auburn rows flanking her entrance and wondered if he could make her scream.  

As if sensing his thoughts, her thighs clenched reflexively, concealing her sex.  

_She's nervous_ , he realised with a thrill. This is all relatively new for her. Oh this is fucking _Christmas_.  

"Ssh sshhhh..." he soothed, stroking the outside of her thighs languidly so as to lull and relax. Up and down, up and down... "Are you comfortable?" he murmured. "Would you prefer lying down?"  

"I'm alright," she replied and her voice sounded far too normal for a woman with a man poised at her hips to eat her out. That was not a good sign, noted Petyr. She was starting to tense up.  

He slowly stood up so they were eye to eye once more. He cupped her face gently. 

“Sansa…” he whispered, their noses almost meeting, his gaze never wavering from hers. “I’ll stop if you want me to. I won’t hurt you. Will you trust me?” 

She blinked and he held his breath. A second or two passed before she slowly nodded.  

He leaned in and kissed her deeply, felt a thrill run through him when she matched his fervour, her tongue exploring, her hands roaming his back. Their kiss still hungry and unbroken, she lifted his shirt and he happily obliged. She fumbled with his belt and he wondered how his damn fly wasn’t already unzipping itself from the straining of his cock underneath it. He vaguely heard the heavy sound of denim on the floor before he stepped out of his jeans blindly and kicked them to the side. Felt the cool of the room hit the back of his legs — a sharp contrast to the heat of her soft, smooth skin on his. Nothing between them now except the flimsy fabric of his boxers now dotted with pre-cum and she, with her camisole bunched around her waist and nothing, _nothing_  else except those fuck-me heels that will undo a man… 

He wanted to sheathe himself in her right then and there and pound himself into her until he was utterly, utterly spent and senseless. But he was nothing if not a patient man. 

With his left hand on her back, his right hand found her left buttock and squeezed it before sliding under the length of her leg. He pulled it up suddenly and hitched it around his waist, then pressed his thigh on her apex and rubbed her slowly, maddeningly, revelling in the damp he felt where his thigh met her sex. No fingers, and she was already this wet. Gods, he wanted her. 

Pinning her to the wall for support, he brought her other leg up to wrap around his waist. “Let’s have a change of scenery, shall we?” he suggested, and carried her across the room before she could answer.  

He laid her gently down on her bed and trailed kisses and nibbles down, down, down the length of that gorgeous body. A teasing tongue on one breast, a longer suck and nibble on the other. He was going to leave marks if he wasn’t careful. It wasn’t like him to lose control but oh… A hand drew circles down her body, a lazy doodle that meandered across her tiny waist and flat stomach before inching ever south to warmer, wetter climes. His finger brushed her clit and she jerked. “Ssh shhhhh…” he soothed as his wanton finger continued its descent, eventually pushing in and eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her.  

He sat up then and she watched as he drew his finger out of her and placed it in his mouth, sucking it off from hilt to tip. Her eyes grew slightly rounder at the sight.  

“You taste… amazing,” he grinned lasciviously. “And I want more.” 

Gently he parted her legs and eased himself down between them, nestling at her entrance. With a finger, he stroked the lips of her sex slowly, spreading her honey so it covered that perfect French wax and coated her bud. He parted her slightly, stroking the inside of her cleft shallowly, teasing her as his finger, his heated breath brushed across her clit so she squirmed involuntarily. “Lie back,” he ordered gently. “Try and relax, see if you like it. I’ll be gentle.” 

Dutifully, she laid her head back down on the pillow and stared at the ceiling like a virgin thinking of England.

 _Challenge accepted_ , he thought. 

With the point of his tongue, he licked the length of her slit, starting slowly from the base. She jerked again when his tongue swiped her clit. And then he felt her thighs shift and pull further apart, tacit permission for more. He smiled.

His tongue circled her clit once more before his mouth closed over her sex. He sucked her slowly, his lips pressed over her sensitive bud, rolling it. Her hips were starting to lift again and he pressed his hands on them to ground her to the bed. His lips still gripping her clit, he pulled his mouth gently away and was rewarded with a cry that went straight to his happy, swollen cock.  

“You like this,” he whispered, his eyes glinting. “I’m _very_ glad.” 

When his mouth descended on her sex this time, it was with a desperate, greedy want. He devoured her, his tongue roaming into her sex, lapping her honey as it pooled into his mouth. She tasted like woman — clean, musky, otherworldly. He buried his face in her, tongue snaking and flicking across her clit, circling around her hood, drawing out sighs and small cries that made his cock twitch and grow heavy.  

He pulled his lips from her slowly, drawing out that unbearable tension between pain and ecstasy. And then without warning — because he loved to keep her guessing — he slid in a finger just as she started to sigh and she cried out in surprise and desire. She was starting to push into his face now, craving depth, craving fullness. His mouth returned to her sex, licking and sucking her clit and her hood at that maddening, deliberate pace while his finger worked in her, searching her crevices. He could not find that spot, not yet, but he would not be thwarted. He pulled out of her and she whimpered until he dived into her once more — this time with two fingers curving up, hitting that magic spot almost instantly.  

Another cry, and this time she bucked, lifting her hips as if to gather as much of him to herself. He was going for it now, his tongue relentless, his thick fingers jabbing into her at that precious angle again and again and again and again…  

She was moaning without knowing she was moaning, her hips raised, her body writhing with frustration. And still he would not break that rhythm even as his own excitement was mounting, as his own cock twitched and throbbed. He was starting to rut into the sheets now, in a pale attempt to assuage his swollen cock. But still he would not stop, each low moan from her an aphrodisiac, each cry a drug… 

When she came, he felt her hand on his head holding him to her, a high, gasping, whimpering cry wrenched from deep within as she bucked and shuddered and clenched the sheets. He was there with her right through her ecstasy, right through the crazy star-burst moment before the slow waft back down to earth. And still he showered her with attention, kissing her and tasting her, lapping her honey and giving her aftershocks and still wanting more. Some women were a chore to give head to, seriously. But with her, he had damn well nearly come all over the sheets himself from watching her shatter under his touch. 

The power over her. It was intoxicating. 

He crawled back up on the bed and lay on his side beside her. She was delightfully flushed and dishevelled, and she stared back at him now with a look of wonder tinged with resentment. 

“Don’t look so smug,” she scolded and he chuckled, immensely pleased with himself. “Gods, you’re unbearable.” She was actually embarrassed. Fucking _adorable_. 

But then she was moving now and he watched, mesmerised, as she started to take charge. She fluffed a few pillows and lined them up high against her headboard. “Sit up,” she ordered and he dutifully complied, dragging his body backwards so he was sitting upright and leaning against her wall of pillows. He helped her out of her camisole, so that nothing of her body should be hidden from him. 

“My turn,” she announced, shimmying down his body and he settled back with an amiable expression on his face that died as soon as she grasped his cock and pulled upward in one firm stroke. Then another. And another. And then she lowered her mouth to the head of his throbbing, throbbing cock and gave it one wet, open-mouth kiss. 

He hissed. _Omifuckinggodsssss_

His head dropped back and his eyes fluttered close. _This woman, this devilish woman…_ Her grip was firm and she was pumping him now, slowly and surely like a piston. _One. Two. One. Two…_ And that mouth! She could not take all of him, but he didn’t need her to. Her mouth covered his head, hot, insistent, hungry. He felt her tongue swirling around him, and when she started to suckle, he almost lost it then and there. 

_Too soon, too soon,_ his mind was yelling. _You can’t possibly want to come already, you dill._ But he was unbelievably close, and he was desperate to regain control. What could he think of? Something completely unsexy. Work? But a vision of her ass in that white pant suit clouded over and he groaned. Issues in the Middle East? Could not care less.  _Lysa?_

_Don’t you fucking_ _dare bring Lysa into this glorious moment._

He shook his head clear and opened his eyes. Mistake. The sight of her actual mouth over his actual cock, a cascade of fiery red hair down her back, her long legs folded back casually, ankles crossed like a schoolgirl, and those shiny black stilettos that started it all in the first place… It was one of the most beautifully erotic things he had seen in a very long time. 

“Stop,” he ordered, his voice raspy and harsh even to his own ears, and he felt her freeze. She sat up immediately and he pulled her to him, his meaning and intent unmistakeable. He was sitting bolt upright now and she climbed on top of him, straddling him, her sopping entrance tantalisingly close to his length. All he had to do was buck his hips to pierce her... 

“Are you sure?” she suddenly asked, her voice low, her eyelids heavy. 

“Am I sure…” 

“Should we stop?” her voice was innocent. “Don’t want to put your company’s chances in jeopardy after all.” 

“Oh this is bloody unfair!” he whined and now she was laughing. _Devil woman._ He swallowed her laugh with an open-mouth kiss and bucked hard, thrusting into her. She cried into his mouth, which only spurred him on. Oh but she was tight, so tight and hot and wet. The song of skin slapping skin was all that filled the room until she started to moan. 

He gripped her hair and pulled her head to the side to expose her long, creamy neck and he devoured her. He was going to leave marks. He didn’t care, he _wanted_ to mark her. Her rhythm was growing erratic now, her breaths jagged as she pumped him. And his mind was blanking. He couldn't think, couldn't think, only feel her. He was trembling, losing it. He had to act fast. 

His fingers found her clit, already coated in her juices, and he flicked it over and over at a manic speed. And then he felt her come apart, her walls contracting around him marvellously and her cries now loud and keening, neighbours be damned. And he came, thrusting into her harsh and deep, and then pulling out just in the nick of time, his seed shooting off like a streamer at a ticker tape parade.  

Didn’t even have time to find a condom. Like a fucking irresponsible teenager. 

She collapsed into his chest and they nestled back into the pillows. He stroked her hair for a full minute, untangling the occasional knot. By and by, she rolled off him and both of them stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. 

She was the first to break the silence. 

“I hope you realise this doesn’t give you some kind of competitive edge. We’re still going to look at all our options for the tender. This changes _nothing_ , Mr Baelish.” 

His lips curled into a smile. “I would expect nothing less, Miss Stark." 


	5. Chapter 5

“What’s this?”

“An invitation.” 

Petyr leaned against the glass wall and folded his arms as Tyrion tore open the envelope and scanned its contents. 

“Never knew you were into planes.” 

“I’m not,” Petyr agreed. “But you and I will be there anyway.” 

Tyrion leaned back into his chair and flipped the invitation over, eyeing the Boeing logo thoughtfully. He tapped the card against his head for a few seconds and finally sighed. 

“Okay. I’m hungover and can’t think, so I’ll bite. Why are we going to a Boeing shindig.” 

“Because they just renewed their contract with Defense after narrowly missing out from that snafu with the transport planes last year.” 

“Yes I know that,” Tyrion returned patiently. “But why do we care, especially since they’re already a client…” 

“They’re putting on a cocktail party and a big showy press conference to do their grand reveal on the currently top-secret new hypersonic fighter jets.” 

Tyrion’s sizeable eyebrows shot into his hairline. 

“How do you know this?” 

“I have my ways.” 

“Are you bonking someone in Boeing?” And because this was _Petyr_ they were talking about, it was actually an honest question.  

“Fuck off,” Petyr returned glibly, before grinning. “We stopped ages ago. She’s got a boyfriend now. And it’s not Boeing.” 

“Defense?” Tyrion guessed, and Petyr shook his head. 

“I don’t beg very well, but for the love of an aspirin and some peace and quiet so I can go back to sleep under my desk, please,” replied Tyrion drily. “Tell me what clever, devious thing you’ve done now.” 

Petyr was happy to acquiesce. 

“The press conference is about attack aircraft. So who else will be there?” 

“Chief of Air Force… Defense, I guess.” 

“And the Prime Minister.” Petyr’s eyes gleamed as he watched Tyrion connect the dots quickly. 

“Prime Minister’s staff will be there,” Tyrion concluded, and shook his head slowly as understanding dawned. “Press conference, and so their Public Affairs team will be there. Including, I take it, one or two rather alluring redheads?” 

Petyr's mouth twitched at the sudden flashback of his swollen cock disappearing into her stretched, heated mouth, fiery hair tickling his thighs. _Alluring indeed. If only he knew._

“We haven’t won the tender yet,” Petyr reminded. 

“And you want the opportunity to grease the wheels,” finished Tyrion. “How do you know they will even be there?” 

“Because I planted Ros as their Girl Friday two years ago.” 

Ros. Ros. The name was familiar to Tyrion. It was coming to him now. 

"Dyed red hair, great chest, nice smile? _That’s_ your source?” 

“She’s a smart girl. I met her a few years ago and we had a few laughs. She’s sharp as a tack, just lacks the formal quals. But she knows exactly what to find when you’re looking for something. I was keeping an eye out on job openings at the Ministry and this finally came up. It was a perfect fit.” 

“So you planted _your own spy_ in the Public Affairs office of the Ministry of Prime Minister and Cabinet,” reiterated Tyrion slowly. “Just so I’m clear.” 

Petyr shrugged. “I wanted to win the tender.” 

“We didn’t even hear about the tender until _this_ year.” 

“Not officially. But I knew it was coming.” 

Tyrion stared at his friend as other pieces fell into place. The types of clients Petyr was trying to win. The projects they were taking on. The portfolio of work they eventually presented to the Ministry. _Bloody brilliant._ Tyrion couldn’t find it in himself to begrudge the smirk on his friend’s face. It was well-earned. 

“It’s frankly freakish how your mind works sometimes, Baelish.” 

“It is." 

 

* * *

“Are you even listening?”

“Hmm?” Sansa turned around and almost collided into Margaery. 

“What’s gotten into you today?” Margaery laughed. “If I didn’t know how OCD you are, I’d say you’re all over the place. Have you been getting enough  _sleep_?” The last had the hint of a wink and a nudge.  

Sansa wisely did not answer but turned back instead to squint at the crowd. 

_I’m going mad_ , she thought. But for a moment there she could have sworn… _I’m starting to obsess. That bastard._

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Margaery needled. She spied another pair of engineers gawking at them from across the circular bar and raised her martini, smiling coquettishly from the corner of her mouth. The room was teeming tonight with suits, even if half of them looked more comfortable in faded short-sleeved denim shirts and lab coats. And Sansa, as usual, was oblivious to them all. 

“What question.” 

“What did I miss? I heard the last pitch knocked it out of the park. Like it was some circus act with a funny midget and a super sexy ringmaster. That’s the only interesting thing I’ve heard on repeat since I got back from Phuket. San~saaaa,” Margaery mock-whined, placing her beautiful golden head on Sansa's shoulder and peering up at her friend with perfectly mascaraed eyes, “I’m bo~ored. I need gossip!” 

It worked. Sansa found herself grinning down at her friend and thought of what to say that wouldn’t incriminate herself. 

“Lion & Stag were good,” she began slowly. " _Very_ good. They prepared a solid deck, and they’ve got some impressive products and an unbelievable client list… although we still haven’t finished our due diligence checks yet.” She started running through the details, but Margaery wasn’t having any of it. 

“Talk to me about the super sexy bad-boy ringmaster! What did he look like?” 

“I don’t know…” faltered Sansa. A vision of green-grey eyes swam into view. Mouth curving cruelly before it claimed her lips softly. The taste of herself on his talented, talented tongue.  

“Young? Old? I heard he’s old.” 

“About forty,” she returned just a little too quickly, and Margaery lifted an eyebrow eloquently. 

“So you _did_ notice!” She was gleeful, and Sansa silently cursed. “Come on, tell me! Is he one of these gym nuts with chicken legs, or just nice and toned throughout? Tall?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Big...  _shoes_?” 

_Big shoes._ Sansa wanted to laugh at the silly myth even as she shivered slightly at the memory. The feel of him as he filled her, stretched her, consumed her. And then when he started to move... 

“I didn’t really notice his feet,” she answered truthfully. 

“Oh gods, you’re hopeless. Is that all you can say? Don’t you dare call yourself a communications guru anymore. Was there a ring at least?” 

“No ring,” Sansa replied, and then relented. “He’s quite attractive, I suppose. Sharp features, good eye contact…” _The hungry way he watched her when she came._ "His hair is greying slightly around the temples. And he’s got a moustache and goatee…” Sansa drew on her face with her fingers to show Margaery how he grew his beard. Her friend raised another suggestive eyebrow. 

“No man with _that_ kind of facial hair can be up to any good,” Margaery replied and started to cackle while Sansa lightly hit her arm. Even as desire pooled into her lace knickers once more.  

_Don’t blush. Don’t you dare blush..._

“Can you seriously not tell me anything more? Ugh!” Margaery sipped her martini, disappointed. “I was hoping for more action. From what the girls were saying, you and Sexy Beard were going at it like a Chinese ping-pong match at one point. Jeyne said she’d never heard you grill a guy so thoroughly. It was almost as if you wanted him to lose.” 

“I thought he was cocky. I wanted to wipe the smirk off his face.” 

“Funny. That’s not what the girls said about him at all. They said he was really likeable, almost kinda cute the way he was so passionately pitching you guys. Were they really just hot air?” 

“No,” Sansa sighed resignedly. “They weren’t. They were really good. And he was very… persuasive.” 

Oh gods, was he persuasive. 

“So why don’t you like him?” 

Sansa found she could not answer her, so she shrugged and turned back to stare into the crowd and Margaery followed suit. She was scanning the crowd again before she realised what she was doing, and then silently berated herself. _You’re paranoid and you’re acting like a schoolgirl. Get. A Grip._

“You’re attracted to him,” Margaery said suddenly, and Sansa snapped out of her reverie to turn to her friend once more. 

“What?!” 

“I’m just guessing,” Margaery shrugged. “You’re behaving the way you did when you were interested in my brother, that’s all.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Just deliberately vague, evasive, distracted…” Margery’s mouth twisted into a knowing smile. “That’s it, isn’t it.” 

“No, that’s not it. There is no ‘it'. I barely know the guy.” 

“Well, if you say so. From all accounts, Circus Boy is quite the bachelor. Maybe he’s my type. Think he’ll go for me?” 

Sansa looked at Margaery properly. She had changed her hair colour again, and this time she was golden blonde — Sansa’s favourite hair colour for her. When Margaery had dyed her hair red once, they had both lost count of the number of times people had asked if they were related. Even their own colleagues had done a double take. Margaery had changed her hair back to brown very quickly after that.  

She had never been in short supply of men. For all her sweet looks and genteel ways, Margaery understood how men ticked better than Sansa would ever hope to. Men had always gravitated to Margaery like lumbering bears to the sweetest honey, while Sansa would be left on the sidelines, stuck with the most obnoxious name-dropper in the room.   

Tonight, Margaery was dressed to kill in a Chanel suit that clung in all the right places and managed to make her look professional and expensive.  The first three buttons of her silk blouse were casually left undone so one could just make out a hint of lace if one were inclined to stare intently. Her soft brown eyes looked especially smoky in this mood lighting. Her _piece de resistance_ was her latest office-wear staple: a pair of smoky-grey vintage stockings with a back seam running the length of her shapely legs.  

Unlike Sansa, Margaery was petite. And men seemed to prefer women who didn’t tower over them.  

Sansa gazed at Margaery’s newest Jimmy Choos and swallowed. Yes. Petyr would absolutely go for her. 

“Like I said,” Sansa replied, “I barely know the guy.” 

“Who are you talking about?” asked a familiar voice, and both women turned around to face their boss smiling at them. 

“So this is where you’ve been hiding out,” chided Catelyn Stark good-naturedly, and both younger women had the grace to grin sheepishly. “Good job, by the way. I think we’ll get good coverage tonight and I’ve already heard positive things about the press kits. Anything on social media?” The three of them each checked their phones and traded off quick statistics. Early buzz was predictably one of surprise, but on the whole, opinion was cautiously optimistic. Catelyn gave her instructions to continue to monitor all feeds and to look out for the usual skeptics. If only the liberal media were grumbling at a level two, they’d consider this a good day. 

“And oh, my manners,” remarked Catelyn suddenly. “I almost forgot — you remember Petyr Baelish, don’t you?” 

Sansa stared as Petyr stepped from behind Catelyn and into the light of the circular bar, like an apparition. 

“Good evening, Miss Stark. Lovely to see you again.” 

She closed her mouth and nodded slightly, shaking his hand.  

Margaery’s eyes lit up in recognition. 

“ _Petyr Baelish_ ,” she tasted his name slowly and smiled. “Margaery Tyrell. I’ve heard _so much_ about you.” Margaery offered her hand as her eyes took the full measure of Petyr’s form appreciatively before shooting a wicked sidelong grin at Sansa. The latter refused to look at her friend even as she gave a warning kick to Margaery's left Jimmy Choo.   

_This surely can’t be another coincidence. Surely._

“What brings you here, Mr Baelish?” asked Sansa. Her tone was mild but her eyes bore into his, the accusation clear. Aggravatingly, he looked as if he was on the verge of laughing. 

_Bastard’s enjoying this way too much._

“L&S are Boeing’s agency,” Catelyn explained before Petyr could reply. “Petyr was just telling me how Boeing recently signed them up again after trying out other agencies in between.” The admiration in her voice was unmistakeable. 

“Can’t blame them, really,” Petyr shrugged self-effacingly. “After many years together, it’s only natural to wonder what you might be missing out with other agencies. Even when your current relationship is happy. I think it’s healthy to try out different things, if only to work out what you like best.”  

“What does that say about loyalty, then?” The question slipped out before Sansa could stop herself. 

“Loyalty is the privilege of the bygone era, unfortunately,” Petyr answered, and he even managed to sound almost wistful. “In my professional life, I am always loyal to my clients. But loyalty is not the currency of the age.” 

_And what about your personal life,_ Sansa wanted to ask. And yet she should not know nor care for the answer. _He is nothing to me. We owe each other nothing._

“Petyr had also mentioned how he is able to do some data cleansing for us,” Catelyn added, pleased. “I was just talking about how ironic it was that the Prime Minister’s office couldn’t get a clean record of postal addresses without accidentally mailing deceased persons, and Petyr tells me that L&S is a partner of AIM, that international geo-demographic company I had mentioned a while back.” 

“Yes,” Petyr continued smoothly, “I was just telling Catelyn how L&S would be happy to give a complimentary cleanse of a state-wide mailing list as a trial run and if you like the result, we could work out a package deal with you going forward.” 

“That’s _if_ we decide to go with your agency, of course,” Sansa reminded, ignoring again the quizzical look Margaery was shooting her. 

“It doesn’t matter either way,” Petyr replied, completely unfazed. “AIM is a separate product, so even if we were to lose the tender — and we would be absolutely crushed if we did, of course — we could still do good work for you through AIM.” 

Sansa felt a pang of annoyance, even as she salivated at the possibilities of having a market segmentation giant at her finger tips. Dammit, but he was good and he knew exactly how to wave the carrot in front of them.  

Catelyn took her leave just then as Eddard Stark beckoned her over to talk to the Prime Minister, who looked as if he was about to leave the room. Margaery waved the bartender over and ordered three drinks without asking. 

“Thank you,” Petyr demurred, “but I’m not drinking tonight.” 

“Really?” Margaery asked, eyes wide and intrigued. “And why is that?” 

“I’m staying dry tonight,” he replied, smile charming. “Personal rule. I don’t drink on the job.” 

“Well, Catelyn’s right over there now, and the evening’s formalities are over. Plus this is a cocktail party. I declare the work day over, and your job done. Besides,” Margaery leaned over and her silk blouse gaped enticingly in the effort, “I figured after a hard day’s work, you’ll need a _stiff_ one."  

Sansa’s mouth fell open. 

Petyr smiled once more and gave a little bow. “My apologies, Margaery. It’s a very generous offer. But I don’t drink on the job.” 

Margaery shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she replied and picked up his beer. She raised the glass to him as he made his excuses and left their presence. 

As soon as Sansa was sure he was no longer within earshot, she turned to her friend. 

“Are you _serious?_ ” She gestured lamely at his departing figure weaving into the crowd before it disappeared. “He’s bidding for the tender. It’s a conflict of interest. You _know_ this!” 

“Meh,” Margaery shrugged. “I’m not on the committee, and I wasn’t at the pitch. And _look at him_. The girls weren’t kidding about him — he’s got an amazing presence. And that stare! He is _fiiiine_.” Margaery looked at Sansa appraisingly. “And what’s up with you? He was nothing but lovely to you, and you were almost rude.” Margaery held up a delicate hand even as Sansa started to protest. “Oh I know you too well, Sansa Stark. You didn’t say much, but you were not your usual sweet self. What’s going on there?” 

“I just don’t like him,” Sansa replied. Her phone buzzed and she glanced at it quickly.  

“I’ve got to go.” Sansa stepped down from the barstool and tossed Margaery a tenner for the drink. “Go find those engineers you’ve been flirting with and give them my beer, will you?” 

She stepped into the crowd before Margaery could make her protests. 

 

* * *

 

She felt his hand on hers before her eyes adjusted to the dark room. 

“Shhh…” he whispered, before his mouth claimed hers and she tasted mint and beer. _Liar._

She melted. 

 

* * *

 

Somehow they made it out of the hotel’s business centre. It was a godsdamn miracle that no one else had thought to look in there to charge their phone or rush in to print a document. 

She lost her hair pin in there. He had taken out the long prongs holding her hair up austerely and run his fingers through her red mane reverently. “Gods, you’re beautiful,” he had murmured before devouring her neck.

Like a couple of idiot school children playing hooky, they had ducked and woven through people they each knew before making it up the stairs to the secondary lobby, the one that only VIPs knew about. From there, they took the lift to the seventeenth floor. He had revisited the marks he had left on her neck, her breasts the last time, and by the time the elevator stopped, he had left two more.

Her nipples were taut. Her knickers were soaked. His cock was straining and impatient.

The swipe card wouldn’t work and they giggled again like children. And then she realised it was Margaery’s. She found her own card and they tumbled in.

She pulled his shirt off and he zipped down her blouse. He had been eyeing that jacket blouse for an age. He loved how she had zipped it all the way to the top like a prim little school ma’am, and he had imagined unzipping it a thousand times over. All fucking evening.

He carried her up as if she weighed nothing and sat her down on the bar. She undid his belt. He pulled up her skirt and felt her familiar damp. He groaned because she was wet just for him, and he had been waiting all evening.

He dropped his pants and she kicked off her knickers. He buried his face in her and she moaned. He wanted to suck her dry, if that was even possible. But she was wet, she was wet for him. He vaguely felt her legs widen, a delicate foot on his back, her splendour splayed for him. He licked her and sucked her and she sobbed and said, “Fingers!” and he obliged. She came within just two strokes, her thighs gripped around his head like a vice, a shuddering. 

He stood up. He kicked off his pants, freed his cock and plunged into her. She cried loudly and he wondered about her neighbours. He smiled wickedly.

He withdrew and plunged into her, as far as he could go. She was impossibly slick and snug. She was still coming down from her last high and everything was wildly sensitive for her, all nerve endings standing and singing. He moved anyway. Again, like a battering ram. And again. And again. He imagined the depth of her and how he would reach right into her deepest parts. Her mouth searched for his and their tongues danced their erotic little dance that only grew more familiar with time. The cabinet behind her shuddered and tinkled in time with his slow, deliberate effort and they both didn’t care. If he broke anything, he would gladly pay for it twice. 

“Harder!” she commanded through her clenched teeth and he almost came then. A more wanton word never fell from her lips and yet he never heard her swore. 

The height was all wrong. He carried her to the edge of the bed. This was better, he thought. For him, for her back… Her legs were around his neck now and when he entered her again, she gasped. This was a better angle. He filled her, filled her completely now. 

“Harder?” he asked, his voice thick with want.

“Hurt me.”

He started to thrust and she cried, the sound high and airy and feminine, a siren. He was pounding into her now, fast and hard. He was breathing deeply as if he were running a bloody marathon. _Don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop._ She was searching for release, her body arching off the bed. 

And then ecstasy. The blinding white. He pulled out before she finished, his seed shooting out. She cried out in frustration. He buried his face in her, tasting the full flavour of her want, both his fingers plunging in and up to find that secret place before they pounded her. His lips found her clit and he sucked on it hard, his lips dragging away from her painfully as he heard her ragged cry at last. 

It was enough. He watched as she came, her back arching, the tears running down her face from the effort of not screaming. A deep satisfaction spread inside him like hot chocolate in a lava cake.  

He climbed onto the bed and over her, brushed the tears from her eyes and kissed them away, breathed in her neck, and drifted off to sleep for the very first time.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Margaery! Nothing like a little competition to put things in perspective!


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa opened her eyes. 

The room was still dark, even under the block-out curtains in her room. She squinted at the digital clock on her bedside table and just made out the time. Ten past three in the morning.

His arm was around her waist, pulling her close to him. Somehow in the course of their shared _petite mort_ , she had snuggled into him and he had started spooning her. 

This was new. Yet another in a growing list of things that were new when it came to them. Yet another resolution broken, another rule bent, another theory binned.

She didn’t know how to feel about this. She felt protected, secure, yet uncomfortably exposed.  

His face was buried in her neck and as she focused on his breathing, she realised he was awake.  

Slowly, her nipples hardened and grew taut as she felt his thumb lightly brush the underside of her breast. Feathery strokes, mere whispers of touch that left goosebumps in their wake. They were still buck naked underneath the covers, warm and snug. She marvelled at her body’s reaction to him, so utterly divorced from that of her mind. Her mind never _ever_ let her forget who he was and what he was probably made of, yet all he had to do was show up unexpectedly at work situations with a suggestive smirk on his face for her sex to throb wildly from remembering. 

His arrogance. His arrogance was equal parts aggravating and sexy as all hell.  

She knew that if she reached behind her, she would find him hard and ready. That much he couldn’t fake. She knew that his reaction to her was just as powerful and visceral, but she wondered if he hadn’t also done his cost-benefit analysis and believed their interludes… profitable.  

“What I can’t quite understand,” he mused aloud, as if they had been chatting amiably for the last half hour, “is your friend Margaery. She offers me a stiff drink... but then she goes and buys me a _beer_.” 

A beat. And then both of them burst into a stifled laugh in the dark. She felt his arm tighten around her, felt the deep rumble of mirth in his chest.  

“Is she really your friend?” 

“She is. You sound surprised. Why?” 

“No reason.” She felt him shrug nonchalantly and didn’t buy it for a second. 

“I’ve known her for a long time. She’s probably my closest friend. She flirts with everyone and puts on a bit of a front, really. You don’t know her.” She sounded defensive, even to herself. 

“If you say so,” he replied mildly but again she didn’t buy it. A silence fell over them for a few seconds before curiosity and irritation won out. 

“What did you think of her?” 

“We barely spoke.” 

“And yet you seem to have an opinion of her. So go ahead. Tell me.” 

She felt him shrug again. “She’s competitive,” he replied bluntly. “I think she likes to know if she’s better than you. In my experience, people who operate that way are generally shit at friendships.” 

“Speaking from personal experience?” 

“Takes one to know one.” 

Sansa felt another flash of irritation, even as an uncomfortable sense of recognition seeped in. Margaery did tend to compare notes often.  

“You don’t know her,” she replied stubbornly, loyally. 

“I don’t,” he agreed. “I’m just an excellent judge of character.” 

At that, Sansa snorted delicately but refused to rise to the bait. Instead, she wriggled further into the bed with a slightly disgruntled air and imagined an annoyingly smug grin spreading across his face.  

Silence fell between them once more as each drifted away on their mind’s own little tangent. His thumb had stopped caressing her breast. Instead, his hand was now flattened against her smooth, flat abdomen, mere inches away from the small path of hair leading to her sex. She tried not to think about it. 

“Are you… safe?” His breath tickled her ear. More goosebumps. They skittered across her skin even as she took a moment to understand him. 

“Do you mean…” 

“We’ve been… careless —  _I’ve_ been careless,” he corrected quickly. “Thing is, I am _never_ careless, and I haven’t been for a long time, but with you I find…” She felt him take a deep breath. “With you, I find I am not my usual self.” 

“Nor I,” she replied softly. She really ought to know better, they both did. They had both been outrageously irresponsible. Repeatedly, outrageously irresponsible.  

She turned around to face him. Her eyes were fully adjusted to the dark now so she could make out his features. He was a terribly handsome man. Margaery had been right. She was wildly attracted to him. She would never be so silly as to get serious with him or have his babies or marry him, but she was wildly attracted to him. This much she knew.  

“If we were to ever cross paths again…” he started slowly. 

“In a work conference, perhaps?” 

“I was thinking more con _gress_.” She could hear the smile in his voice and even though he was taking care not to touch her at all now, she felt her body blush and thanked the dark.  

“You’d like to know if precautions could be taken on the off-chance that we should… _meet_ … again.” 

“Always the straight shooter, Miss Stark.” 

“Then here’s another one,” she sighed. "I’m allergic to condoms. And on a separate but related note, I’m allergic to many forms of ingested and injected contraceptives. And I have a ridiculously irregular cycle. There was once I went six months without one. I ended up going to the doctors to rule out anything ominous like cancer.” 

“That explains some things,” he replied unexpectedly. “I have been trying to nail down your cycle and it was starting to drive me spare why the dates didn’t add up.” 

“Did you spreadsheet this?” Sansa replied drily. 

“No,” he answered absently. “I’m usually pretty good at working this out in my head. I hate losing at puzzles.” 

“I was kidding, Petyr. And, ew? This is actually bordering on creepy, you working out my cycle!” 

She gave a little laugh and he chuckled along with her, but even in the dark, she could tell he wasn’t really laughing.  

Something wasn’t quite right. 

“What is it?” She thought suddenly of reaching out to touch his face, to hold it in her hand. But the gesture felt too intimate — a crazy summation, seeing how he had plumbed the very depths of her. And yet she would not touch him like this. 

There was a long silence and she waited. She watched as flits of emotion crossed his face, watched as the cogs of his mind whirred within. She felt, rather than knew, that he was about to break a few rules of his own. 

“I got a girl pregnant once,” he eventually said, and because it was one of many possible answers she had playing in her mind, she was not surprised. 

“I was very young, barely a man. We went out for a while. I think mostly because I got sick of pushing her away and it was just easier to give in and have a go. 

“It didn’t last very long. I think I regretted it almost as soon as we started. Turned sexual almost immediately, except it was rather one-sided. When I tried to break it off, she cranked up the knob and turned full psycho. 

“The usual palaver — begging, emotional blackmail, threatening to tell her parents about me taking her virginity even though she had to practically force me to. I swear I’ve never slept with a woman under such duress before. She even faked a suicide attempt, fucking loon. I didn’t budge. But then one evening she turned up at my door pregnant. 

“I didn’t know shit about women at that point, not really. Didn’t understand how their cycles worked except it could get bloody messy — pardon the pun. And I was terrified. We took her to the doctor’s, who fucking confirmed it. It was the worst day of my life. Some distant Catholic guilt meant I didn’t want to kill the baby, and she would have refused an abortion anyway. This was it. I was going to be tied to the last woman I wanted to be with. We got married before I even had much of a chance to think things through. I was drunk throughout the ceremony at the local town hall and almost couldn’t sign the paperwork because I was entering into the contract inebriated. Except I think she scared the living shit out of the town hall clerk herself, so I ended up married that day after all. 

“The months went by, and things started making even less sense. She wasn’t growing as much as I thought she should. And then she got into a weird naturopathy earth-mother kick and refused to have ultrasounds. She was lactating and everything, and yet things weren’t adding up…" 

Sansa had grown very still by then, her eyes wide and unblinking as she listened in morbid fascination, her heart squeezing at the horror. Petyr was no longer looking at her now. His usually bright, clever eyes had a faraway look in them and his voice was getting softer and his brogue, thicker as he recalled a past that was clearly painful and humiliating for him. 

“Anyway, to cut a very tedious story short, it turned out that she wasn’t actually having a baby after all. She had what is called a _hysterical_ pregnancy. That psychopath had gotten it into her head that she must be pregnant with my child and believed it hard enough that her body worked itself up to look like it. She even managed to trick the pregnancy test and her doctor.” 

He looked at her now and his eyes were hard and she did not blame him. 

“Moral of the story? I learnt how a woman’s plumbing works. And I’ve been careful ever since. And the next time a woman claims some foetus is mine, I’ll see that it gets aborted and then I’m out of there. And if they want to keep it, they’re welcome to it — but I’m out of there. I am never going to get married again.” 

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. She watched as his jaw clenched and relaxed, then clenched again. She willed herself to look at him calmly, openly. She wondered if she looked kind.  _Read my face and see no judgement._

She reached over tentatively and hesitated before she placed her hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into it, and she thought he started to relax. 

“Look, Sansa,” he eventually sighed. “I don’t do relationships. When I first met you on Tyndyr — and your profile pics are absolute crap, by the way. Fire your photographer! — I was going to do what I usually do. Have a nice evening. Go back home. Get some sleep. Move on. But then we had a mind-blowing first night together, and then I met you at the pitch that same week. And once I broke my first rule, it started getting easier to break the second and the third. 

“But I don’t do relationships. And if you’re feeling like you want something more, then you need to understand this now.” 

“I like my life as it is, Petyr. We’re on the exact same page.” 

“Okay then.” He gave her a brief smile and she returned it with a small one of her own. 

“Is this some sort of goodbye, then?” she asked, her tone carefully bland. 

They stared for a long moment, both playing a game of chicken.  

“Well…” he drawled finally, “I still need to win that tender…”  

She rolled her eyes and he grinned. When his lips touched hers, she parted them easily. Their tongues melded and she marvelled that he was starting to taste familiar even as a jolt of electricity shot to her sex and warmed it. He cupped her breast and squeezed it, and she deepened her kiss to mark her approval. He found her bud and twisted gently. Her hand drifted down and she brushed against his head, already swelling and wet in anticipation. 

“What are we going to do…” he murmured into her ear, "you’re allergic to condoms…” 

“You’re from a _creative_ agency, aren’t you?” 

“Why yes,” he grinned and this time his eyes lit up with mischief and promise. “So I am.” 

 

* * *

 

He finally left her room just after five, and in so doing, kept their unwritten rule intact. No sleepovers. No awkward breakfasts in the morning, no morning breath, no public walk of shame. 

She was exhausted in that gloriously spent sort of way after an especially long run, and she stretched in her bed like a cat while she wondered how she was going to survive the flight back to the Capital and a full day of work after that. Should she call in sick? Her parents were going to ask a million questions and make a fuss. She was going to have to find a good, believable one. Like a migraine. 

She would need a long bath first. The natural residue of their repeated coupling was growing tacky between her legs and she needed to get the smell of debauchery off her body. 

And then she would have to face Margaery. And think of how to explain —  

“Oh crap!” gasped Sansa as her hand flew to her mouth. Margaery’s key. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a bit of a momentum here! And yes, some character backstory emerging. Bit of angst. I think Petyr's going to be a little surprised at his own overshare.


	7. Chapter 7

“I am so, so sorry.” 

Margaery looked up from her toast, then calmly looked back down again to finish buttering it before taking her sweet time to scrape on the thinnest layer of Vegemite known to modern breakfasting humans. Satisfied, she raised the toast to her mouth and took a big bite from the corner, careful to avoid her lipstick. Her eyes flicked up finally to look at her friend coolly.

“I hope you weren’t stranded for too long. Were you looking for me for a while? My phone had gone flat and I… didn’t get to charge it before I went to bed.”

“Wish I had known that before I tried to lodge a missing person’s report at the station,” Margaery bit back before biting off more of her toast.

Sansa stared in horror.

“You did not!”

Margaery shrugged. “They weren’t overly concerned. Said to come back after twenty-four hours or if you miss your flight. But you’re here now, so I guess that will save me the trip.”

“And my parents?”

“Were with me.”

Sansa sank back into her chair, the colour draining even further from her pale face.

“I was in my room.”

Margaery glared at her. “I know,” she replied evenly. “And having _quite_ a lot of sex, from what I could gather.”

Sansa stared at her friend in confusion, trying and failing to piece together her words to form a logical sequence of events except exhaustion and anxiety were turning her brain to mush. It took a full five seconds before Margaery’s lips twitched and Sansa watched in bemusement as her friend’s disapproving visage dissolved into laughter.

“Oh the look on your face!” Margaery cackled, still holding her toast.

“You cow.”

“I think I let you off lightly, actually,” Margaery replied. “You did leave me hanging after swanning off so suddenly. The engineers didn’t know what to do after I gave them our beers, and everyone else was either boorish or boring. You took the only interesting man away.”

Sansa startled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh please. Petyr Baelish? Mr Conflict-of-Interest? Sansa, our rooms share a wall. And the both of you were not exactly quiet.” 

This time Sansa blushed furiously, the colour now rushing up her neck and heating her ears. It was one thing to be caught having loud sex by a close friend and colleague, but the hypocrisy of her earlier warning to Margaery was what ultimately made Sansa wish the ground might swallow her up now. 

“I’m guessing this wasn’t your first sexy time together. Otherwise, that Petyr Baelish is an obscenely fast worker!” 

“No… no, it wasn’t our first time together." 

“Well, then why didn't you just tell me you were shagging him on the side?" quizzed Margaery, and this time Sansa heard the hurt in the accusation. "At least I wouldn't have made an ass of myself in front of both of you. You know I don't care about the tender!"  

“I don’t know what else to say except I am so, so sorry,” Sansa confessed meekly.  

“Well I do,” replied Margaery, rubbing the last of her crumbs off her fingertips. She leaned in suddenly and grinned. “You can start by telling me how the two of you hooked up, for one thing. And don’t lie! I’ll know when you’re lying now. And then I want Every. Single. Gory. Detail. I’m talking girth, and length, and technique, and beard burn, girl!” insisted Margaery, even as Sansa started laughing and cringing. "And don’t skimp on details. I already know how good he is in the sack. I could _hear it_." 

“Oh gods… do I have to?” 

“It’s the least you can do after subjecting me to a very awkward soundtrack of your moaning. Now come on!” 

Sansa leaned back in her chair and eyed one of her oldest friends thoughtfully. “You promise you won’t tell anyone.” 

Margaery snorted. “The only person I gossip to is _you_ , you goose.” 

“Not just the sex… the fact that Petyr is running for the tender?” 

Margaery gave her friend a withering look. “Do you really think I’m going to pull your mother aside and go, 'Oh Mrs Stark, you’ll never guess whose whistle your daughter is blowing'? Give me some credit!" 

Sansa started to giggle, slightly relieved. 

“Although who knows,” mused Margery slyly, “I might start humming _Love Me Tender_ when the mood strikes me. Or is it _Love_ My _Tender?_ ” 

“No one would get it.” 

“I could always change more words.” 

Sansa smiled, finally relaxing. A part of her had been nervous about Margaery finding out about Petyr, but seeing Margaery now obviously curious about — and happy for — them lifted a burden she hadn’t realised she had been carrying. 

“Alright,” she replied, tone grudging. “I’ll tell you a little. But you have to promise me that you’ll keep your voice down. And we’re going to have to find a code for him.” 

“How about _Elvis_ ,” blurted Margaery, and burst out laughing. 

 

* * *

 

He was going to have to move the rest of the meetings this afternoon, decided Petyr. _I’m getting fucking old._

And this was after getting two hours before rising for work again. In many ways, going to bed after an all-nighter was more fatal than dosing up on coffee by intravenous drip then hanging on for the next twelve hours before ultimately crashing. Petyr used to be able to pull shit like that, but this morning he had stumbled into his Surry Hills townhouse and collapsed on his bed like a deadweight.

And he had slept more deeply than he ever remembered doing for the longest time. 

The rest of the day felt like an ode to schizophrenia, his work persona on auto-pilot while his mind replayed the early morning interlude on repeat. The sex had been out of this world, as usual. They had taken it a lot slower after the frenzy of the night before, but he still ended up shooting his load across the bed and almost hitting the curtain. Still thought that was rather impressive, actually. 

But inevitably his thoughts would drift back to the moment he told Sansa about Fucking Lysa, and the cold tendrils of uncertainty would return to plague his mind. He shouldn’t have told her that much, he berated himself for the umpteenth time. And yet he replayed the scene a hundred times more and knew he would have told her each and every time anyway. Because it had felt absolutely right at the time. Because he wanted to.  

What the hell did that even mean? He barely knew her, even though he had memorised every curve of her body now. 

He had _never_ told anyone that story. Not even while sad-drunk during the actual nightmare. But here he was, post-coitus and blabbing his head off like a Valley girl. 

Gods... he hoped he wasn’t turning into one of those pathetic sods. Those big tough ones with tatts they bring out on some shit reality show and as soon as they’re prompted by a big-eyed blonde reciting psychobabble, they start pouring out their life story and ugly crying on screen.  

He was not going to turn into a fucking cliché.  

“You happy about last night’s press conference? Got what you came for?” asked Tyrion when they happened to pass each other in the office on Petyr’s way out the door.  

He managed to nod. “Got exactly what I came for,” he smirked on cue. 

He just hoped he didn’t leave his balls behind in the process. 

 

* * *

 

Sansa groaned. “I really need to go home. I feel terrible and I hardly touched any booze.”

“Sex hangover,” nodded Margaery sympathetically. “You need lots of water, lots of sugary fruits, and lots of sleep.” 

Sansa looked at the time on the corner of her screen and groaned again. “It’s only eleven!” 

Both their mailboxes pinged at the same time. 

“Uh oh…” Margaery frowned and then popped her head around her screen to cluck her tongue sympathetically at Sansa. “You’re not going to like this, chicky. Catelyn’s just called a meeting about that data cleansing thing Elvis was telling her about. AIM, was it?” 

At the mention of Elvis, Sansa shot Margaery a warning look which the latter blithely ignored. 

Sansa’s mailbox pinged again and this time she frowned. 

“What’s up?” 

“I have another meeting request,” Sansa replied, still scanning the details in the email. “It’s the Selection Committee and Catelyn has brought our meeting forward because she’s flying out next week. Looks like I’m not going home early today.” 

She paused and her frown deepened. She blinked and re-read the paragraph, mouthing the words silently.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“What is it?” 

“He’s done it,” Sansa breathed. “Catelyn wants the Selection Committee to call it today. She thinks we have a clear winner.” 

 

* * *

 

The pop of champagne and a round of applause. The sweet sounds of victory.

Tyrion gave a typically droll speech while Petyr smirked silently in the corner, refusing to stand in the front and play the company hero. He didn’t need the accolades delivered with the usual office theatrics; the handsome commission was adequate reward for now and he knew well enough not to tempt the gods — or Cersei — by celebrating his victories too publicly.  

Besides. The tender had given him unexpected kickbacks in the form of the most diverting Miss Stark. And now he needed to pull a big favour. 

“Come in,” he heard the clipped voice and let himself into the largest office in the building. When Tywin used to run the show, this used to be the conference room for large meetings but when Cersei took the helm, she had decided that she needed a palatial space for her office and had appropriated the room. So Cersei.  

Petyr entered the room and smiled at his manager. 

“Well well,” Cersei purred and she leaned back into her chair to survey her top salesman. “The hero of the hour.” And when Petyr mildly demurred at the praise, Cersei was quick to cut through the bullshit. 

“We both know you masterminded a lot of it. My brother isn’t half as clever as he thinks he is, but you are. So drop the bashful act and tell me what you want. Another raise?” 

“Not at all,” Petyr smiled. He gestured at the seat in front of him for permission to get comfortable and she nodded. That was progress. She must be secretly chuffed about winning the tender after all. Perfect. 

“I was wondering who you were thinking of account managing our newest client.” 

“Not that it really concerns you anymore, but I was planning to put Oberyn on it. Why?” 

Gods, Oberyn Martell. He who fucks anything that moves. Great. 

“Because I’d like to put my hand up for the job.” 

“ _You?_ ” Cersei raised a skeptical brow. 

“I used to do account management.” 

“That was a long time ago.” 

“Not that long ago,” Petyr corrected. “And I was great at it, if you recall. Maybe it could be a two-tiered model where we could use someone like Olyvar to deal with the day-to-day and he can escalate to me for the bigger stuff. And that way, I have a natural wedge to look for other business opportunities, both inside PM&C and outside of it.” 

“It sounds like you’re eyeing something already,” Cersei observed. “What’s caught your attention?” 

“A campaign promise,” Petyr lied, even as he remembered the touch of her hand cupping his face. “One of the things the Prime Minister had talked about before he won the election was the need to drag the country into the twenty-first century when it comes to integrated government services. I have a suspicion they’re going to challenge the Privacy Act so that that they can loosen the restrictions around information-sharing between ministries and build a super system for all major government services, using a single login. I’d like a piece of that action." 

“And what happens with business development?” 

“Tyrion is more than ready to go solo for big clients. And Canberra still has an airport, the last I checked. And I’ve done this before, like I said.” 

Cersei twirled her pen, her gaze thoughtful and penetrating. Petyr met her gaze carefully. Too much confidence, and she was inclined to refuse him out of stupid spite. Too diffident, and she would start to doubt his capability or else suspect him of manipulating her somehow. Which would lead to refusing him out of stupid spite. 

“Varys has a theory, you know,” Cersei volunteered, her voice dangerously soft. “He thinks you’ve been sleeping with someone from the Ministry. Some ginger.” 

Petyr shrugged, even as he willed his body not to tense instinctively. “Varys is inordinately interested in my sex life, for someone so vastly disinterested in his own.” 

“Are you sleeping with someone from the Ministry?” Cersei asked pointedly. 

“I didn’t need to,” Petyr replied bluntly. “And Varys can go kiss my ass." 

Cersei eyed him coolly while she considered his reply. Petyr fought down his irritation, even as he felt the flip-flop of anxiety start to churn within his gut. Fucking Varys. 

“I suppose it doesn’t matter whether you’re lying, since it’s gotten us this far.” she finally conceded. “But if your bedroom antics start to screw up our relationship with the client, you can be sure we’ll choose the client. You’re useful, Mr Baelish, but you’re not indispensable.” 

“I never thought I was.” 

“Then we have an understanding.” Cersei’s smile was thin. “I’ll agree to make you account manager and you can take Olyvar as your second. But your sales targets remain the same.” 

_YESSSSSSSS..._

Petyr nodded and thanked Cersei perfunctorily, then quietly made his excuses. As soon as he left her room, he grabbed his coat and whacked Tyrion at the back of the head on his way out the door. 

“You coming?” he called, as he punched the lift buttons.  

“Where the hell are you going?” 

“To celebrate,” Petyr replied with a devilish grin. “Drinks are on me." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margaery's version:
> 
> Love My Tender  
> Love My Pitch  
> Tell me we're in luck  
> You'll be glad you made the switch  
> Every time we...
> 
> Love My Tender  
> Love Us, Do  
> All our dreams come true  
> As they say in business, let's  
> Get in bed with you
> 
> Love My Tender  
> Love me long  
> Love me long long time  
> I have quite a decent schlong  
> And I like to rhyme
> 
> Love My Tender  
> Love Us, Do  
> All our dreams come true  
> As they say in business, let's  
> Get in bed with you
> 
> \------------
> 
> UPDATE: Sunday 18 February 2018
> 
> Salome, one of the readers here, did a recording of Margaery's Version as a last hurrah of Tyndyr after it finished! I'm soooo touched, and also tickled pink.
> 
> Download here:  
> https://drive.google.com/file/d/0Byva3xbyAXEIdklfTDdtVXlkb19xYVN1WEVmSjhzc3F5NWN3/view?usp=sharing


	8. Chapter 8

“You excited?” 

Sansa raised an eyebrow articulately. “About…” 

“New day. New beginnings. New agency. New opportunities for dipping your pen in the company ink…” Margaery grinned saucily. “You know, now that I think of it, I’m not sure that phrase is entirely accurate. Technically, _he’s_ dipping his pen in _your_ company ink… " 

“Ew!” Sansa threw a ball of crushed paper at Margaery as the latter cackled once again and ducked easily. “I don’t ever want to hear you talk about my _ink_ again!”  

“Well, you look especially nice today.” 

“I look normal.” 

“Uh huh.” Margaery eyed her friend shrewdly, taking in the beautiful cut of her pencil-thin grey dress that hugged her bottom enticingly and accentuated her waist, the way the asymmetrical wide-necked collar dipped at a dramatic diagonal across her décolletage and ended just discreetly above her left breast. She had made an extra effort with her eyeshadow today. Margaery always played up her eyes while Sansa usually did just enough to “look natural”, but her eyes this morning were unusually smokey by Sansa’s standards. She looked hot, if Margaery were to say so herself. 

_Normal, my ass._

“What’s the name of the account manager again?” 

“Olyvar,” Sansa replied, looking again at the meeting invite.  

“Elvis not coming?” 

“He’s not on the meeting invite.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“He’s not on the meeting invite,” Sansa repeated firmly. “That’s all I know.” 

* * *

“Petyr Baelish!” Margaery grinned and leaned in to plant air kisses beside both his cheeks. Sansa was right. He smelled gorgeous. Edible. “Welcome formally to Prime Minister and Cabinet! And you must be Olyvar!”

Olyvar turned out to be a bit of an adonis in his own right — tall, lean, golden cap of designer-styled hair, nice wide mouth, watchful eyes. Beautiful man. Graceful, tall. _Nice_ ass. Absolutely, positively gay as a picnic basket. 

“Margaery Tyrell,” Petyr introduced to Olyvar who shook her hand firmly. “And Sansa Stark.” 

Olyvar turned to shake Sansa's hand as Petyr eyed her keenly, a small playful smile touching his lips. Sansa was assiduously avoiding him by throwing the full weight of her attention at the golden Olyvar. 

“We didn’t expect you to come today!” Margaery chirped brightly. “You weren’t in our meeting invite.” 

“I wasn’t sure I could make it today,” Petyr replied smoothly. “But my urgent business was resolved and I managed to move some meetings around at the last minute, so here I am.” 

“I’m surprised you were even thinking of coming,” Sansa spoke suddenly. “I didn’t think you’d be involved in this side of the business. I thought you were the salesman.” 

Petyr ignored the barb. “I thought it best not to miss the first meeting,” he answered, “seeing how I am your Account Manager.” He smiled cordially then, but even Margaery could detect the glee in his eyes. 

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “I thought Olyvar was our Account Manager.” 

“Olyvar works for me,” he explained. "He’ll be handling the day-to-day tasks. So the smaller jobs — new print work, graphic design, email campaigns, social media management… those jobs that keep ticking along, just brief them in to Olyvar and he’ll take care of you. But the big ones — new national campaigns, whole-of-community engagement exercises, public service announcements, big strategy… that’s where I step in.” 

Sansa stared at him and the both of them seemed to have a wordless conversation for a second or two. Petyr’s grin grew wider.  

“We’re in here,” Sansa said finally once she spotted Jeyne and the rest outside the door to the conference room. Petyr held the door open for all of them but as Sansa passed him, Margaery thought she saw his hand brush her buttock before settling on the small of her back. Sansa’s mien remained imperious as they walked into the room, the door clicking close behind him.  

* * *

“He’s definitely into you.”

“He’s definitely into the sex.” 

“No,” Margaery smiled at her friend. “You’re wrong.” It was payday and the House of Lords was starting to fill up with the usual Thursday clock-out crowd. They had just narrowly missed out on their favourite booth but Sandor, their favourite strong and sullen bartender, was on tonight so they didn’t think they had to wait long. They had scored the last two bar stools in the quieter end of the long bar and had their usual poisons delivered before long and without asking. Sansa waited for the buzz of her Sangria to kick in. He hadn’t used Grand Marnier tonight, but straight rum. Good call. 

Margaery toyed with her toothpick between her long, manicured fingers. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I think you’re wrong?” 

“Do I have a choice?” 

Margaery blithely ignored the jibe. “I think he’s definitely into you because he’s here and he clearly found a way to keep seeing you.” 

“He’s only overseeing Olyvar. You heard him.” 

Margaery scoffed. “You’ve googled him. I’ve googled him. He’s not here out of the goodness of his heart to oversee a junior account manager. He’s their Closer. His pay grade is too stratostrophic for an agency that size to waste him on that sort of gig. You know this.” 

“Well, you’ve said so yourself. He’s their Closer. Probably sticking around this city to grow business." 

“Maybe. But I also think that’s the cover story. The real fairy tale is you, princess.” 

Sansa rolled her eyes as she took another generous sip. But she didn’t meet her gaze, Margaery noted with a smug smile to herself.  

“Also,” Margaery continued, her amusement growing, “I’ve noticed how handsy he’s been with you. The man _cannot_ stop touching you. And you…” Margaery smiled slyly, “ _let_ him." 

“You’re just making stuff up now.” 

“Am I? Hand on your back? Your ass? (Still my favourite dress, by the way.) A naughty brush under the table when he’s pulling his chair in? And I had no idea what he did midway through Jeyne’s longwinded brief to Olyvar, but you jumped. You recovered well, but I saw you.” 

“Maybe I thought a Huntsman ran across my foot.” 

The two girls finally looked at each other in a Mexican eyeball standoff before Sansa capitulated and started to laugh. 

“Liar. I almost lost my life in the car because of you and a _tiny_ spider, Sans. No way in hell you’d stay in that room if a fucking hairy Huntsman crawled over your foot.” Both girls shuddered. 

“Well okay, let’s suppose you’re right. He stalked me to Canberra to be our Account Manager. And he’s handsy. Still proves my point, though — he’s just into the sex.” 

“No,” Margaery shook her head slowly and smiled at her friend. “It’s the way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s looking. Especially when you’re in full business mode. That’s how I know it’s not just the sex.” 

Sansa’s head shot up and she stared at her friend for a beat before turning back to gaze at the bottom of her glass, unseeing. “You’re just looking for the romance.” 

“Never really been accused of that before, but suit yourself,” Margaery replied and tipped the last of her martini back before sucking off the olive on her toothpick. “Anyway, you can always ask the man himself since I just saw him enter the bar.” 

Both women swivelled around on their bar stools and true enough, Petyr was making his way over to them, Olyvar not far behind him. What a gorgeous suit, Margaery noticed idly. Bespoke, for sure. And interesting tie pin. Not for the first time, her imagination took a wander and an image flashed past — shirt rumpled, cashmere-blend pants in a soft heap around the ankles, Sansa crying out against the wall adjoining their hotel rooms. Margaery grimaced, shaking her head. _Just… don’t go there._

“No stupid jokes about stalking,” warned Sansa in a low voice. 

“Not this time,” grinned Margaery, “especially since I was the one who invited them here.” 

* * *

“You came prepared. Am I that predictable now?"

Sansa lifted her nose haughtily, even as she drew her breath shakily in anticipation. “What made you think I came prepared for you?” 

“Mmm…” Petyr’s smile widened as he nuzzled the dark blue lace of her panties, his sharp, inquisitive nose precariously close to the heated, dampening folds underneath. “You’re right. You weren’t expecting me after all. Perhaps you wore these for Olyvar. Poor darling. Totally wasted on him, you know. But I, on the other hand…” His teeth grazed the thin elastic hugging her hips and he carefully bit into it before peeling the soft, dainty fabric oh so carefully... 

“Wet silk and lace,” he purred and clutched his prize to his nose, breathing in deep. “Gods, you smell divine.” 

She came twice and a half after that. The highs, they blended together eventually like too many fireworks and she was a quivering mess by the end. In his enthusiasm halfway through, he had flipped her over so she ended up on all fours and at first she was unimpressed. _I am not some animal that you can take from behind_ , she had thought. _Like a brood mare_. But then he had gently spread her cheeks before shooting his tongue in her, and the very idea of him doing so, of what it must _look like_ from afar, sent a dirty ache straight to her core. When his fingers, his wonderful strong fingers, entered her folds, she moaned deep and long. The angle. The angle was new and sinfully precise. She buried her face in the pillows to muffle her sighs.   

His mouth, his sinful, sexy mouth, would skirt dangerously close to the tiny pucker just a skip-hop away from her sex. _He wouldn’t dare_ , she thought. He didn’t, to her relief. He flirted for a whisper of time and then returned to her sex, her bud already throbbing for him. As if reading her need, he reached for her and suckled, pulling at the hood gently, teeth grazing just a touch. She buried her face further in and groaned. 

“I need… is it safe for me to…” 

She nodded wordlessly into the pillow, not trusting herself to speak. She was starting to crest but that sweet release still seemed so intangibly, agonisingly elusive. She felt him at her entrance, still impossibly blunt and hard and ready. Her own ministrations to him earlier were apparently effective enough to last all that while. Or maybe he just loved seeing how hungry she was for him.  

She figured the latter. 

He pushed into her hard and knocked the air out of her. The angle, oh the angle again except this time he felt even more all-consuming than before, the friction of his fabulous cock raking parts of her she never knew had been neglected until now. He slammed into her, first agonisingly slow, revelling in the way her body shuddered with each savage entry, the way she moaned and demanded _Again_. And then he picked up speed and she felt herself meet him halfway, slamming back into him as he thrust into her, their rhythms urgent, their movements no longer measured. Erratic. Her body was its own, her mind had no control. She was peaking, her low cries now blending into the one. She was vaguely aware of his harsh breaths on her back, his hands spread wide on her hips. Commanding. Demanding. Insatiable. 

And then she came. She heard him cry out just before the whitest white overtook her, before her body trembled uncontrollably and she crumpled into the bed. _Sssansa_ , she thought she heard him hiss. It was the first time he hadn't shouted an expletive. It was the first time he’d called her name.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaarrrrrgggghhhh... So this was an especially difficult chapter to write, mostly because I think I had too much of a break in between so the pacing of their relationship got all screwy. Actually wrote a very long chapter and then decided that it was probably in the wrong spot. So I've chopped and changed and now you have this little baby instead. But I promise I kept the rest and there is more on the way. 
> 
> Or you can just ignore this mini-meltdown and pretend I actually know what the hell I'm doing. :D


	9. Chapter 9

“Good morning, Ros.” 

“Mr Baelish.” A quick glance at her screen. “You’re very early.”

Petyr smirked. “Nice weather for flying today. Got a spare desk?” 

“The breastfeeding room is free,” Ros replied innocently, pointing to the room just outside the glass double doors.  

“The breastfeeding room.” 

“After ten years of lactating, breast-pumping, hormonal women on this floor, they finally gave up and turned this into a nursing room. No one in the building seems to be breastfeeding this month. You’re very welcome to use it.”  

Petyr peeked around the door and grimaced. It was a spartan enough room with an old office desk, but the only thing to sit on was a hideous salmon-coloured armchair upholstered in cheap pleather. Someone had left part of a breast pump on the table: a plastic funnel, just about the unsexiest object ever to cup a woman’s bosom. Petyr nudged it to the side gingerly with the edge of his briefcase before abandoning the idea altogether and retreating sullenly to the godsawful chair. 

Ros re-entered the room with a Doppio Ristretto, just the way he liked it. He took it in one hit, savouring the taste in his mouth before swallowing. “Nice one,” he complimented before placing the small espresso glass on the windowsill. He wasn’t quite ready when Ros settled into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck. Her short skirt hiked even higher to expose bright red undies that matched her dyed hair. 

“Mmm…” she nuzzled into his neck, “I’ve missed this stubble.” 

He turned and kissed her affectionately on her forehead.  

“I take it you broke up with Steve? Or Stu? What’s his name again?” 

“Jackson,” she replied and laughed. “Yes. But don’t worry. The make-up sex will be worth it. More power to FAMU!*” Her mouth strayed upwards and she kissed the side of his mouth where he favoured his smirk, before biting his lower lip tentatively. Her hand slid under the fabric between the second and third button. He opened his mouth and kissed her back slowly, his eyes never leaving the door. 

“What time do you knock off work today?” 

“I can’t,” he replied and made an effort to look a little disappointed. “I have a flight to catch at six.” 

“Pity,” Ros shrugged. “I’m still mad at Jackson, but I’m horny as fuck and you’re always a good lay.” 

He grinned at the compliment. “My loss, I’m sure,” he returned magnanimously. “Now, what news do you have for me?” 

Ros snorted. “It’s always business with you,” she chided good-naturedly, but got up to hand him a manila folder nonetheless.  

“Came across this on Tuesday. It’s still in draft, but I think your hunch about the eGov portal is on the money.” 

“How did you get a hold of this one?” 

“Photocopier on the fourth floor. But I made a quick copy before Ramsay came to collect his printing.” 

_That’s a girl._

“Who’s Ramsay?” 

“Dipshit. Real arsehole. IT project manager, but a real climber. You’ll meet him today. Try not to deck him."  

“Does Sansa know about this yet?” he asked, waving the folder. 

“My guess is not. Ramsay likes to hoard.” 

He settled into the chair and started to read, his eyes flicking over the pages and picking out the salient points, committing them to memory. He didn’t have an eidetic memory, but it was close. Ros was right. His hunch about the election promise was starting to look solid. 

Ros stood watching him for a minute or two before checking her watch. “I’d better get back,” she rolled her eyes. “Phone calls to answer, ergo-fucking-nomic workstation checks to organise for everyone, secrets to steal. Are you sure you can’t sneak in a quickie?” 

“How!” 

“I could blow you right here. We don’t have to go the whole hog, just enough to get me off. Ten minutes, max.” 

“You’re something else,” Petyr smiled indulgently. If she had been anyone else, he would have told her to fuck off politely. But Ros and he go way back and she was as close as he’d ever gotten to having a friend with very occasional benefits. He liked that she was brash and knew exactly what he was. There was never any complication about needy phonecalls after, and the chore of having to let her down easy. Hell, he hardly knew what she got up to in between, and she never bothered to ask after him. She used him just as much as he used her, and it just worked.  

So what was stopping him today? 

He reached over and picked up a lock of her bright red hair, feeling it between his fingers. He guessed she had to strip the colour from her hair before the red went on. The red was arresting but it felt like straw in his hand. Like a wig. An imitation. 

“It’s too risky,” he smiled apologetically, “and I have to get some work done.” 

“Oh well,” she shrugged, reaching over to take the empty espresso glass. “Was worth a shot.”     

* * *

_What the fuck._

There were at least two other urinals beside the guy, but no. He had to choose the one next to Petyr. Was he gay? It wouldn’t be the first time a man propositioned him, but Petyr’s gaydar was finely-tuned and this creep wasn’t sending out the right vibes. Petyr stared straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought while he continued his piss, but only too aware of the stranger’s sudden laser-like fascination with the activities in hand… 

“Like what you see?” drawled Petyr as he started to zip up, before turning to stare coolly at his voyeur. 

The stranger grinned. “It’s a good-sized cock, I suppose. For a short guy. But it’s no Bolton.”  

_So this is Ramsay._

“You from around here?” Ramsay asked while leaning against the wall. Petyr noticed he hadn’t bothered to wash his hands. “I haven’t seen you on this floor before.” 

“I’m here for a meeting,” Petyr replied congenially. He tipped his chin towards the far wall. “In there. With the Public Affairs team at ten.” 

“So am I. Sweet,” Ramsay replied. Then added confidentially, “Those chicks in there are fucking daft, most of them. But they’re good for a laugh.” 

“Oh?” Petyr replied, tone curious. Inviting. That was all Ramsay needed. 

“Oh yeah. Ministry keeps them around to keep the media sweet and be our grammar police. Gender balance and all that affirmative action shit. But the actual work gets done by people like me. Don’t get me wrong, though. I like them. I really do. The whole building’s crawling with testosterone, so it’s nice having an entire department of fuckables for a change.” Buoyed by Petyr’s Cheshire smile, he lowered his tone again. "And some of them put out too, if you’re ever interested. I can tell you which ones.” 

“You’re a handy one.” 

“Name’s Ramsay. And you?” 

“Petyr Baelish.”  

They shook hands. Petyr resisted the urge to return his own straight to the sink.   

“Who do you know here?” 

“Not many,” shrugged Petyr. “Sansa Stark, mostly.” 

He watched with interest as Ramsay’s face tightened.  

“Friend of yours?" 

“Purely professional,” Petyr replied smoothly. “I’m a contractor.” He waved his visitor pass as proof.  

Ramsay shifted his weight to the other foot and then back, as if the movement helped weigh up his options. He was a thick man, Petyr observed, both in terms of waist and of head. Just a walking, talking sexual harassment suit. There must be a powerful benefactor behind him, Petyr surmised. You don’t get to be that much of a shit in broad daylight and not be fucked ten ways by HR if you weren't. Petyr had encountered his ilk many times before. Hell, he even worked with one.  

Luckily for him, fuckwits like Ramsay tended to be the easiest ones to prise intel from. All you had to do was make them feel like they owned the biggest dick in the room so they’ll happily wave it.  

“Lemme tell you something,” Ramsay finally said, right on cue. Petyr leaned in attentively, which predictably pleased Ramsay. 

“Sansa Stark? You be careful of that little bitch.” The last few words were accompanied with spittle. Petyr cocked his head slightly but kept his face neutral.  

“Oh?” 

“She’s crazy. Real controlling and paranoid. And prissy. Behaves like she’s royalty or something because her mother’s the GM and her father’s a Dep. Sec. Our fathers work together, and I know there's mental health issues in that family. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got something herself, you know.” 

Petyr lowered his head while he schooled his face.  

Ramsay took his silence as encouragement to continue. “A real piece of work. Don’t get taken in by that dolly face. She’s not as brilliant as she thinks she is. You wait,” Ramsay smiled cruelly and Petyr’s pulse jumped a notch as adrenaline poured into his veins. “You’ll see later. She knows nothing.” 

Petyr shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and gave a low whistle. “Sounds like it’s going to be quite the meeting then.” 

Ramsay smiled. His teeth were smoke-stained and pointed. “Come and see.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, but that's because the next chapter is a Sansa POV and could potentially be longer.
> 
> Also, FAMU = F...ornicate And Make Up. You're welcome.


	10. Chapter 10

“Petyr, what are you doing here? The meeting’s in the front room.” Sansa's eyes did a quick sweep of the room for classified documents before walking over to stand in front of her desk. 

“I came to check out where you work,” he drawled in reply. “Morning, Margaery.”

“Petyr,” Margaery smirked in return and brushed past him as she walked out the door. She stopped just behind him to check out his ass before silently mouthing her full approval to Sansa. Sansa shot Margaery her filthiest look before the latter blithely shut the door behind her. 

“You can’t technically be here.”

“I won’t be long. Just thought I’d say hello, and… chat.”

“Okay…” she replied, her tone suspicious. If he was thinking of having a quickie two minutes before their meeting, she was going to have to drop some truth bombs on him about the public service in general, and his own delivery times in particular.

Instead, he leaned against the door. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Nice of Margaery to leave the room for us.”

“Sure it is.”

A beat. “Feeling prepared for your meeting?”

“I suppose…” She frowned. “Why?”

“Any last-minute additions to the agenda?”

“I sent it out earlier this week. Did you not get it?”

“I did.” He ran a hand through his carefully parted hair distractedly, mussing it. Sansa wondered once again what was really going on, even as she tamped down the sudden urge to run her own fingers through his short mop before pulling his head in for a long, hard, toe-curling…

He’d probably take it from there, and then get them both fired. 

“Read something the other day in _The Economist_ ,” he said with a studied nonchalance that didn’t fool Sansa for a second. “There was an article in there about Singapore and how centrally controlled and efficient much of their state services are — but what that also means for the individual's security, privacy, and rights as the country gets increasingly digitised. Then again, their citizens’ privacy laws are nothing like what we have here.”

His green-grey eyes locked on hers. “Have you read it?”

“No,” she replied neutrally, even as her mind started racing. _What does he know… How does he know… What is he trying to tell her?_  

“I would.” He stood up in one graceful motion and Sansa glanced at her wrist. Ten on the dot. Once again, his almost prescient sense of time astounded her. The man was eerily punctual to everything. 

He opened the door to her room to let her out. But just as she passed him, she felt his hand on her wrist stilling her.

“Delaware,” he murmured into her ear. “Remember _Delaware_.”

“What are you —”

“It’ll make perfect sense if it ever comes to that,” he promised her. “And if it happens, just look at me.”

* * *

Ramsay was in fine form today. 

Sansa fought down her irritation and tried again. 

“As I was saying,” she repeated patiently, “Prime Minister’s concerned that our messaging about the need to increase immigration isn’t hitting the mark because it’s clear from even today’s interview that we’re getting drowned out by the Refugee Question. People just aren’t seeing the semantic diff—“

“And again, everyone I’ve spoken to says, ‘I wish PM&C would just bloody let Immigration sort this out instead of micro-managing,” cut in Ramsay once again. “I mean, what’s the point of having a whole ministry for it, if you won’t let them do their jobs?”

“You _know_ , just as well as I do, that this is coming from the top,” Sansa replied testily. “This morning’s interview with—"

“Then push back!” Ramsay retorted. “Stop being such a pussy about it. I’m sorry, are we not allowed to say that? Are we not allowed to say pussy anymore? I thought it was only insulting to men. Fine. Stop being such a _girl_  about it. Your daddy's the Dep. Sec. Get him to pull his thumb out his fat ass and do something for a change.”

A dull red started to creep up her neck. Sansa hated it, _hated_ it whenever Ramsay brought up her father like he was her pet monkey. And she was almost certain that Ramsay was arcing up about Immigration just to be contrary. Like how he’d been contrary about every other thing since the start of this meeting. If she said black, he’d say white. 

The fact that Petyr was watching probably spurred him on as well. Ramsay always did like an audience.

Everyone else in the room was feigning intense interest in their notepads, doing their best to disappear altogether. Sansa wasn’t going to get back-up from any of this lot, she realised with another surge of irritation. Not for the first time this last hour, she missed Margaery. That woman could sass like no other. 

And then there was Petyr. What galled her the most was that he was here to pay witness to the most entitled, belligerent man in the building kick the proverbial crap out of her in a meeting she was supposed to be chairing. It was humiliating. She flicked a glance over to Petyr who was sitting back in his chair, his face impassive. Then, as if sensing her, he turned his head, his eyes catching hers and holding them. His mouth flickered into a brief smile for her and then he shook his head ever so slightly.

_Don’t let him_ , he seemed to be saying. _Don’t give him the floor._

She tried again.

“Eddard Stark has already been in conference with—“

“Now you’re just boring me,” snorted Ramsay. “It’s just another excuse, isn’t — “

“I know we all appreciate your feedback,” she interrupted, her tone arctic, “but can you hold off until I’m done?”

“No, I wo—“

“Thank you. Eddard Stark has already been in conference with the Prime Minister. But because this has hurt his polling two weeks in a row, it’s our issue now.”

Petyr smiled a little wider this time. _Good_. 

She looked around the room, getting her groove back. “I want some new messaging by close of business today so we can refine by tomorrow with Catelyn et al and start media training for the PM — “ She held up her hand once she sensed Ramsay about to jump in again. “Not now, Mr Bolton, I have work to do.” 

Petyr smirked.

"Gilly!” The girl's head shot up like a deer's. “Please pull together the team and carve out some time in my schedule. Maybe at three, or after lunch? This one is urgent. Petyr…” His grey-green eyes locked on hers again. “Could you please stay for this? I’d like you to have a taste of what we do when we do one of these.”

He nodded gravely. “Happy to serve."

“You finished?” Ramsay’s reedy voice sneered. Sansa paused, stomping on the urge to turn on him and scream. It was all the wedge he needed.

“As usual, you run after the stupid stuff and miss the most obvious, important thing. _Messaging_ , my arse. Chasing after the media to suck their cocks on this issue isn’t going to save you. What,” he snapped when Sansa wrinkled her nose in distaste, "we can’t say cocks now? You gonna report me to HR again, Sanitary Sansa? The point is, you’re missing the forest for the trees, princess. You’re the Comms guru. I can’t believe I have to teach you how to change the conversation.”

“Then what do you propose,” replied Sansa icily, bracing herself.

Ramsay smiled nastily. 

“You talk about the National Single Sign-on.”

Sansa blinked. The rest of the room looked as perplexed as she felt.

Ramsay laughed, then snorted in derision. “Clearly, you have no idea what I’m talking about.” He clapped his hands, and it sounded like a slap in the room. “ _Perfect_. Fucking bunch of amateurs. I can’t believe you’re supposed to be the mouthpiece for this Ministry…”

“Just explain yourself, Ramsay.” Sansa sighed tiredly, resignedly.

“I don’t have to,” he sneered. “Just ask anyone else on my floor, or this building for that matter. We’ve been talking about this for months, because it’s Fucking. Unprecedented. It’s going to be the centrepiece for this administration. If they pull this off, the way this country accesses government services will never be the same again. If you haven’t heard about it,” he added maliciously, “maybe you need to think about changing your day job.”

_Government services… state services…_ Petyr was just talking about it. Something about Singapore.

She glanced over to Petyr, who seemed to be mouthing something discreetly, his eyes drilling into her.

Delaware.

Every dark project in PM&C lately seemed to use the name of an American state as their working title. Prime Minister’s little joke. What if...

There was something in the fuzzy past, something the Prime Minister had mentioned in passing when he was campaigning in Darwin. And maybe again when they were in Western Australia. The two places that always struggled to get reliable access to government services. _Centrally controlled state services._

_But what on earth is a National Single Sign-on?_

Ramsay’s mouth was twisted into an ugly, triumphant smile that only widened as each second passed. He looked around the room, arms out, palms up. Chuckling quietly, derisively, as if to say, _See? This is your brave and fearless leader?_

Unbearable little dung beetle. 

“Oh, you mean Project Delaware?” she replied airily, and glanced again at Petyr. He nodded imperceptibly. “Yes, I’ve heard about it.”

_Risky, risky…_  

But Ramsay was looking unsure now.

“ _You’ve_ heard about Project Delaware.”

Sansa shrugged. “It’s all everyone’s talking about, isn’t it. You said so yourself."

Petyr shook his head slightly, his eyes glinting in warning. _Don’t go there..._

_Okay, so maybe Delaware wasn’t as widely known as Ramsay was making this out to be. Typical_. Sansa was slightly relieved, and yet this threw up more questions than answers.

Like how Petyr seemed to know exactly what Ramsay was on about, to begin with.

“Well, if you know so much about _Delaware_ ,” Ramsay replied, eyes narrowing in suspicion, “then is this department doing anything about it?”

_Oh crap. Here we go._

She turned to stare across at Petyr. “Well actually…” she started, raising her eyebrow at him. He nodded imperceptibly again, his eyes boring into hers. _Can you do this,_ she tried to ask him with her eyes. _Can you pull a fast one?_

“Sansa and I have been working on this in the last week actually,” his low baritone rumbled. The tone was amiable yet it commanded the room at once. Even Ramsay was sitting up. “The first thing, of course, is the Privacy Act — can’t be sharing the personal information of citizens across government ministries without raising questions about privacy and potential abuse. It will dominate the news once we publicly float the idea of a single digital identity for government services.”

Sansa kept her face neutral, even as she absorbed the implications of this disclosure for the very first time. How the hell did he know so much? Or maybe he didn’t. The consummate bullshit artist at work.  

"All the usual experts the media will trawl out are expected to beat their chests about keeping government silos or risk turning into Big Brother,” he continued, getting into his stride now. "So Sansa has tasked me to do some focus group testing on the language we’re going to use. And maybe a sexier name than 'National Single Sign-on'.” He smiled warmly at her. “It’s going to be a hard sell in some ways, but she’s forming a solid roadmap and I’m privately confident and excited, to be honest.”

Ramsay did not look pleased. Sansa fought the urge to look too delighted or relieved.

“We can’t say too much, of course,” she added sweetly instead. “You know as well as I do that it’s early days and the Prime Minister isn’t ready to announce until we are. Best to wait till then.”

_That will fix him,_ she smiled as Ramsay’s face turned into a bitter lemon. She mentally punched the air.  

* * *

"Why does Ramsay Bolton have it out for you?”

They had secured a table at _The Pork Barrel_ without reservations, a veritable feat in itself during lunchtime. But Sansa was feeling lucky. Her appetite had returned with a vengeance after that hideous meeting. She ordered a minute steak to the amusement of her lunch date, who went on to ask for a caesar salad without the dressing.

“That’s… just rabbit food now, really. You’ve ordered a twenty-dollar bowl of rabbit food.”

Petyr's mouth curled. “I don’t have your metabolism anymore,” he replied, patting his toned stomach. “I’m old, remember. And besides,” he added, his voice going silkier, “I indulge in many other ways."

The one o’clock crowd was starting to pour in and Sansa glanced around the tables quickly, keeping a look-out for anyone who might recognise her. She thought about sliding her foot up the inside of his leg. Maybe a quick massage at the top. 

Maybe not. He was better at this than she was. And he had far fewer inhibitions. 

“You’re avoiding my question, sweetling.”

She shrugged. “He doesn’t like me.”

“Yes, but why. Let me guess,” he leaned back, surveying her. “He tried to hook up with you but you wouldn’t bite.”

“Aww, what’s the fun in that? First try!”

“It’s textbook.” He tapped the spot in front of him to signal where the waiter could place his Long Black. “He’s the high school bully with the secret small dick and the prettiest girl in school won’t go out with him. And so he’s either telling everyone you’re a slut, or you’re frigid — or some public service equivalent. Either way, it’s all about how you’re the loser for rejecting him. My concern is that his micro-aggressions will start to snowball the longer you outsmart him. It’s lose-lose with people like that. Best to get rid of him, really.”

“Okay, Mugsy.”

“I’m serious, Sansa.” His eyes were steel-grey now, narrowed. Dangerous. A low growl. “I don't like the way he talks to you."

_Godsdamn_ , thought Sansa, suddenly annoyed. _This again._ Every man in her life, just swooping in to protect her like some frail little bird — all while getting off on some testosterone high. The older she got, the more Sansa loathed the kid gloves. _I can bloody well take care of myself,_ she fumed. _And you are not bloody Batman._  

Meanwhile, her nipples started to pebble.

"Use shorter sentences."

"I beg your pardon?"

"With Ramsay. When you speak in meetings, you tend to ramble. I know it's because you're thinking as you go, but that just gives fuckwits like Ramsay the chance to cut you off. And when he does, it makes you look ineffectual. Long-winded."

Sansa blinked. She could feel her temper rising, but a part of her was also hungry for ways to deal with Ramsay. And no one had ever bothered to tell her how before.

She breathed. "What else." 

"Tell, don't ask.”

She raised an eyebrow. “People still have to like me, you know.”

“You can still be polite, but the trick to sounding firm is to watch how you end your sentences. You tend to make your statements sound like questions. You’re their boss. Don’t give your opinion prefixed with apologies. Don’t seek their permission. Tell them nicely.” A small, grim smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Or in the case of Ramsay, just tell him.”

“He won't listen.”

“You’re too considerate, that’s why. Cut him off. What you did in there towards the end was good. He’s counting on you to be polite. Don’t be, at least not with him. Point out his interruptions. Tell him he’s being a dick when he is being one. Cut him off.”

He stopped suddenly and pressed his finger to his mouth as if to shush himself. Another small smile, but this time it looked self-conscious.

“I’m sorry,” he said at length. “I’m lecturing you. My shiny-new prized client. That’s as patronising as what he just did to you.”

“No it’s not,” she was quick to reply even as her mind swiftly concurred. But her eyes softened anyway. She stretched a leg out to brush against his and felt him press back against her instantly. She grinned. “Okay. Yes it was. Don’t do it again.”

He sighed. “I don’t know what came over me.” 

A long pause.

“How do you know all this? About Project Delaware?”

“I have my ways.”

“It couldn’t have been through me.”

“It wasn’t,” he assured her. “But I pay attention to lots of things. I have a long memory. And I’ve been around this circuit before.”

Sansa looked at him then, appraisingly. She had always suspected that he was brilliant at what he did, but the events of today made her realise she had underestimated him all along. 

“How did you know that Ramsay would bring up _Delaware_ to spite me, though?”

Petyr shook his head. “I didn’t. We got lucky there. Very lucky.” 

She was not convinced. The way he had walked into her office just before to casually talk about Singapore, of all places? Yet thanks to that, she was able to turn the tables on that jackass. Eventually.  

“Thank you, by the way,” she said softly, and she made sure to look him straight in the eye. “Someday soon we’re going to talk about what you know and how you know it, but thank you for what you did in there just now with Ramsay.”

“Pleasure’s mine."

Their food arrived. He ate his rabbit food and she made a small show of thoroughly enjoying her steak. No croutons, no dressing, but he’ll still have the bone-dry rosé, thank you. She liked the way he would sip his wine, his eyes never leaving hers. How he looked at her like she was a tall drink of water. 

“Keep up that mmm-ing, and I might have to debauch you on this table in front of your nice friends,” he grinned.   

“That won’t be good for business.”

“Would be worth it, though.” He pressed his leg more fully against hers and she thought again about that massage. By the time she was through with him, she’ll see that he won’t be able to leave the table for a while. _Tsk, tsk._

“What time is your flight?”

“Six o’clock…” 

“Oh.”

“…in the morning.” His grin was wide, like a wolf’s.

“ _Oh_.” 

* * *

"Why did you take this job?” she asked suddenly, her nails still grazing the underside of his cock slowly, absently. The lightest of touches that had his full attention, even as they both stared at the blank ceiling.

“Hmmm?”

“You’re a big shot wheeler-dealer. You fly everywhere, get your suits made in Europe, schmooze in different languages. Why take the job in pokey ol’ Canberra, glorified country-town?”

“Capital of Australia,” he corrected. “Seat of government.”

“Population half-a-mil,” she reminded. “You won the tender. You got your commission, I’m guessing. So why take this job?”

He turned to look at her then, his piercing eyes more green than grey in the dim, warm lighting. He was so very handsome, so inexplicably seductive, but his eyes were guarded even as his mouth curved into a smile.

“I think you know why.”

“I don’t, that’s why I’m asking.”

“You’re fishing.”

“I’m asking.”

He turned back to stare at the ceiling and she continued running her nails lightly around his cock. Up. Down. All around.

“Mmmm…” he smiled appreciatively and she obliged him all the more by wrapping her hand around him firmly. She smiled before she gave him one smooth stroke. A deep hum reverberated within him. 

“Why wouldn’t I take this job when the staff benefits are… unbelievable.” She could hear the lecherous grin in his voice. 

She wondered if she should call him out on his evasion. She wondered if she really needed to know.

Instead she sank lower and wrapped her lips around his length, taking as much of him as she could. She gave him a long, hard, slow suck before releasing his head with a pop, grinning wickedly when she heard him hiss. 

“Such a tease,” he complained as she resettled beside him.

She shrugged. “Half a job for half an answer.”

He leaned his head back and laughed. The sound was luxurious and warm like velvet and honey and she thought, not for the first time, of how she enjoyed hearing it. Out there, he smirked and bantered, the humour polished and inoffensive, charming almost to a fault. But in here, when she elicited a laugh such as this, it felt a little like winning a prize. 

“I’ll trade you,” he eventually bartered. “A _quid pro quo_. I am, after all, a big shot wheeler-dealer.”

_Oh dear_. But she jutted her chin out and accepted the challenge anyway.

“So answer my question!” But he wagged a finger at her. 

“My turn now,” he replied. “You can ask again after this if you like.”

She sucked in her cheek in mild irritation but acquiesced anyway. His eyes glinted in triumph and she swatted his turgid cock in exasperation. 

“Fine. Ask your question.” 

He thought for a second or two. “So how does it work, your mother and you. Here you were, worried about our conflict of interest during the tender process, but then your mother is your boss.”

That was unexpected. Sansa stared hard at the ceiling wondering what to start with, before turning on her side to face him. 

“Government ministries are a bit like high schools,” she started slowly. “There’s no official ranking system, but everyone knows which ones are the branded ones. The unspoken Ivy-leagues, almost. Prime Minister and Cabinet, as you can imagine, is probably the most sought-after Ministry in the public sector.

“My family are career public servants. The only ones who aren’t public servants are my younger brothers — who are currently studying overseas — and my rebel-for-rebellion’s sake sister, Arya. Gods know what she’s up to nowadays, because she doesn’t tell us anything. As for the rest, my half brother is in Afghanistan, my oldest brother is a diplomat, and my father — as you know — is one of the deputy secretaries here. My mother heads up Public Affairs and I ended up getting hired in the same department by her colleague before she took over the department herself." 

Sansa stared off into the distance just then. The next part was not so easy to rehash. 

“The decision to hire me was not a popular one. It was bad enough that my parents were both in the same ministry, but at least they weren’t in the same area. But my mother was keen to have me on board because she truly believed that I was the right person for the job — still does. And so even though she is typically almost _constipated_ about appearances, she persuaded me to go for the role. I was the youngest candidate by half a decade at least, and I ended up jumping through all sorts of hoops to get through. Eventually I did get through, as you see. But we both paid for it. I have had to prove my worth to everyone every day, and my mother feels as if she has to justify the nepotism by working me doubly hard.”

“Why don’t you just leave?” Petyr’s eyes were genuinely puzzled. It was the same expression she often saw on Margaery when she had an especially bad day.

“Because,” sighed Sansa, “I am the Golden Child. I’m Daddy’s Girl and, after Arya bailed, my mother’s prodigy and legacy. And yes, I know it’s not fair and it shouldn’t be this way, and I really need to live my own life instead of someone else’s hopes and dreams for me. Yes, yes… but it is what it is. Family. Duty. Honour. All that.

“So you can see why I was especially keen not for anyone to know about us,” Sansa finished. “Any hint of impropriety could be used as ammunition in a department already super competitive and bitter.”

“But your colleagues respect you. I watch how they listen to you, how they work for you.”

“It’s taken me _years_ , Petyr. After today, after Ramsay, you can see how it can unravel just like that.”  

His eyes took on a thoughtful gleam but he said nothing as his mind whirred once more. Sansa watched as he retreated into himself. She saw it now and then when he was plotting or processing. Noticed how his face would almost shutter when he seized upon new information, how he liked to melt into the background now and then to observe others. She wondered what he thought of her now, what he was thinking.  

Perhaps she should just ask.

“What are you thinking?”

“Is that your question?” A small smile.

“No…” she rolled her eyes. “You know that shouldn’t count.”

She had laid her head back down on the pillows and now it was his turn to prop his head up on his arm, to stare down at her. She felt his other hand start to trace slow circles down her body. First around her breasts, his finger dancing light pirouettes around her nipples before descending lower. She sucked in her breath as his finger dipped into her core. His seed was still inside her, mingled now with fresh desire — but he didn’t seem to mind. She watched as he pulled out his finger and proceeded to trace sigils around her folds, her mound, her tummy, before dipping into her once again like she were an ink pot. 

“I’m thinking…” he murmured close to her ear and she shivered slightly as his breath tickled it. Never immune to him, she realised once again. “I’m thinking that you are more extraordinary than ever.” He nuzzled her ear. “Ask your question again.”

“Why did you take on this job?"

He kissed her then, his eyes half open to watch her as her eyes closed. Their tongues found each other once more and she parted her legs as he leaned over her, careful not to crush her as he settled himself between them. She wrapped them around him. Their lips never parted, his tongue hungry, plunging, a mimicry of what was to follow. Her hands skimmed his back until they cupped his toned, hard ass and squeezed. He needed no other encouragement to enter her slowly, both of them sighing when he filled her to the hilt.  

“I can’t get enough of you,” she admitted at last, wonder and exasperation mingling.

“Likewise,” he replied softly, kissing her neck, “and there's your answer." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra-long chapter on a small milestone. Ten chapters! And here I thought I wouldn't have enough for one. But we're here, in no small part to you. Thanks for your constant encouragement and company, you all. xx


	11. Chapter 11

“Shit. SHIT! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” 

Petyr shoved his keyboard hard against the screen, and then cursed again when his Montblanc pen skittered from the impact, before rolling off the table nib first.  

“FUUUUUUCK!” 

“Having a good day, then?” observed Tyrion wryly, popping his head around the door. 

“Internet’s down, right when I need to FUCKING. UPLOAD. THIS THING.” He ran a hand through his hair again and sighed. 

“Mobile data?” 

“I get no reception in this room. And it’s a fucking huge file anyway.” 

“Which one’s this?” 

“Playboy drinks.” 

“That’s not due until next week, isn’t it?” 

Petyr flopped back into his chair and glowered at the screen. “That’s right.” 

“Then why the…. oh.” Tyrion raised his thick, suggestive eyebrows. “Trying to get ahead so you can rush off to Canberra again?” He smirked. “You schmitten kitten.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Schmoopy boy.” 

“I mean it, short fuck. I’m not in the mood.” 

“The snarling! Well! I guess now’s not the time to tell you a client has asked for some attention.” 

“Which one.” 

“It’s Canberra.” 

Petyr flicked his eyes over his phone. It couldn’t have been Sansa. She’d call his landline otherwise, and he’d been in all morning and she hadn’t, he knew. She hadn’t sexted him either. He suspected she was probably too busy, but all the same. Just a little flirty, dirty text would have been nice.  

It was probably Margaery again. 

“I’ll call her back now,” he said resignedly. 

“No need,” Tyrion replied lightly, checking his nails, “because she’s here.” 

It took Petyr a full second to understand Tyrion, and then another to decide to believe him before jumping to his feet. “Where is she?" 

“Oh we’re back to being happy now, are we?” 

But he was already out the door. He scanned the web of plebeian cubicles across the level just in case she was making her way to him, before brisk-walking to the front where reception was. As soon as he rounded the table holding yet another one of Cersei’s hideously vulgar flower arrangements, he saw her. Sansa was lounging back on the couch in reception, one graceful arm draped across the back of the sofa, long legs crossed at the knee and wrapped in flowing, white pants with a large flare at the bottom. She wore her hair down today; it was swept to the side to expose that beautiful, aristocratic neck and cascaded down her front in thick waves, shiny and red and lush. She looked like a million dollars. And then she saw him and smiled, triumphant. 

“Miss Stark,” he purred and because it was only the new receptionist with the forgettable name watching, he picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. “What a wonderful surprise.” 

“Yes, I thought I’d make the trip up to Sydney. Take a long-overdue tour of your office. See where the sausages get made.” 

“Indeed,” he replied, tone growing suspicious. “And you caught me at a surprisingly good time. I’m not in meetings today.” 

“I know,” she replied airily, and then smiled very smugly. “I checked.” 

There were only two people he could think of that could collude with Sansa. And only one that would have. 

“My funny, short friend has been busy,” he observed drily. “But come, let me show you around.” 

* * *

There wasn’t a single person on the floor who wasn’t either openly gawking or sneaking surreptitious looks at her and wondering who the fuck he just brought into his office. Petyr smirked at every damn one of them before closing his door. 

“Nice corner office,” she commented. “Only the best for you, I suppose?” 

And in reply, he pressed her against that multimillion-dollar view and kissed her slowly. Heard a small mmm and imagined her smiling against his parted mouth. She slipped her tongue in and he heard his own groan. He loved that she never complained about him ruining her make-up. That she was gorgeous and yet not all that vain. 

He felt her arms slip around his neck and he wrapped his own around her waist easily, pulling her flush against him. More eternal seconds passed between them as they tasted each other before he sighed and reluctantly pulled away. 

“Glass walls,” he growled in complaint. “I gotta change those glass walls.” 

“Wallpaper them in newspaper, like back in high school,” she advised sagely. “Works for cars.” 

“Who did you make out with in cars, Miss Stark? I’d like to know.” 

“Ahhhhh _quid pro quo_ ,” she grinned, brushing a long finger slowly down the length of his nose. He kissed it as it passed across his mouth. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” 

He gave a short bark of laughter. “I’m getting old, Sansa. My memory isn’t what it used to be.” 

“That many, huh…” She slipped her hand under his tie dangerously close to the knot and pulled him close before sliding her tongue across his bottom lip. He heard himself groan again. 

“I’d like to call a meeting with my account manager.” 

“Don’t you want to see more of our wonderful facilities, and meet our illustrious executive?” 

He felt her hand brush past his hips before cupping his aching groin. He felt her hand explore the length of him straining under the wool-blend. A beautiful smile touched her lips as her eyes darkened.  

“I’d like to call a _special_ meeting with my account manager.”  

* * *

_Playboy drinks can go fuck themselves,_ he thought.

He opened the passenger door and she stared at his wheels, amused. 

“Funny. Never really figured you for an Aston Martin man.” 

“Really, Miss Stark? And what did you think I would drive?” 

“Something more wanker-y. Like an obnoxious Porsche.” 

He looked a bit chagrined and sheepish then.  

“What?” 

“My previous car was a Porsche.” 

* * *

Surry Hills was a grand old suburb that had everything a single man would want — shops, nightlife, library, parks, women, a short commute… Petyr liked it enough, but he liked its resale value more. And he loved his renovated terrace house best.

As with anything good, it had been a long waiting game that had turned into an expensive exercise during the procurement stage. The house was one of the few purchases he had made with his heart rather than his head, surpassing his own private threshold by twenty per cent to outbid the ugly fat fucker with the fuglier orange Maserati and the vacuous gold-digging half-Asian blow-jobber standing beside him, pouting angrily with all her new botox.  

It had been worth every last cent when the auctioneer finally yelled “Sold!" and they had both howled. 

“How on earth did you manage to persuade the council to let you convert the ground floor into a covered garage?” Sansa asked with incredulous wonder, and his heart swelled with pride that she understood and appreciated both the magnitude of the task and the near-impossibility of its occurrence.

“It’s not actually heritage-listed,” he explained. “Its bones are new, but the original developer had a soft spot for the old architecture and built this row to blend in with its historic neighbours. And this corner unit is extra special because it was deliberately made double the size of the other units.” 

He killed the engine and slid out of his car, walking over to her door to offer his hand. She stepped out into his garage and marvelled at his cabinetry. “You’re anal-retentive even at home,” she mused. “This is the cleanest garage I’ve ever been in.” She stepped past his other wheels curiously. “I would never have thought to own a car in Sydney, let alone two. And a motorbike!” 

“Driving isn’t so bad once you get out thirty kilometres or so,” he shrugged. “I travel a lot for work, and I don’t always get to fly. And parking only becomes a pill in the city when you don’t have your own.” 

“You park at work for free?” 

“It’s part of my package.” 

Sansa gave a low whistle. “So different from the public service.” 

He watched as she walked the length of the bridge leading from the first-floor entrance into his castle proper, leaning over the clear glass balustrade to look at the cars below, and then up above to the floor-to-ceiling window of his bedroom ensuite. She took in his walls of books, his polished timber floorboards, his different ceiling heights. She murmured phrases of appreciation, picking up books and putting them down gently, running her hand through the sheepskin before seating herself at the baby grand.  

“Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake.” 

“You know, that line wasn’t actually said to Bogart.” 

“I never said you were Bogart.” 

_Touché, pussycat._

He sat down beside her and proceeded to play Chopsticks. She smacked his arm playfully. 

“Be serious. Play me something complex. I'd like to see your fingers working hard.” 

He gave her a filthy grin at the unintended _double entendre_ , but he acquiesced nonetheless and after a quick think, decided to play her an old composition from a long time ago. 

“Mmm…” she said when he finished and thanked him by pulling his tie once more to her. Her kiss was soft, slow, sensual.  

His hand went up to her face, cradling it as he deepened the kiss. The silence in the room punctuated only with the occasional sigh. 

By and by he stood up and she took his proffered hand. Slowly, they ascended the winding cantilever staircase before stepping into his bedroom. 

She froze.  

“That is the hugest bathtub I’ve ever seen!” 

He grinned. “Me too.” 

“I’m serious! You could bathe a small elephant in this thing. Although I don’t think you’d want to.” 

She walked around the standalone bathtub, marvelling at its asymmetrical curve, at how it sat proudly like a sculpture not ten feet from his bed. 

“It looks like a dish, a beautiful white bowl,” she enthused. She peered over the side and her eyes widened even more. “It’s got jets!” 

“It does.” 

She looked at him then, and he knew exactly what she was going to say before the words left her mouth. 

“Do they work?”   

* * *

Soap. Soap is a wonderful, wonderful thing when it’s all over a woman’s body.

The thing about water, people don’t realise, is that it’s not actually a lubricant. Everyone has fantasied about having hot sex in the tub, but the reality is usually trickier. Water actually washes away the body’s lubes, and what you’re often left with is friction. So you’re either having rough, slightly uncomfortable sex in the water, or you’re trying to get it on above the water level and freeze while doing so. 

Jets, however, have their uses. 

Sansa wriggled lower. Her hair was done up in a crazy do to keep most of it out of the water, but a few long tendrils had escaped. He brushed them to the side so he could lick and nibble a path from her neck to her shoulder unimpeded. 

“The jet,” he purred into her ear, his breath hot with desire already. “The one in the centre… would you like to reach it?” 

She nodded wordlessly. He slid himself lower, and she slipped further into the water, her breasts now fully covered but he could still reach them.  

“The water, the spray… can you feel it on you now?” 

“Mm hmm.” 

“Why don’t you part your legs a little more.” 

He felt her legs part obediently, felt her adjust herself until he heard a sigh. Her body drifted back down on his and he knew then she had found a good spot. 

“Lean your head back on me, sweetling. Just here.” And she settled her head in the crook of his neck, the spot that seemed made for her now.  

“Do you feel the pressure on you, Sansa? The water, the spray, it feels good?” She bit her lower lip and nodded. 

“Just vary the angle slightly, maybe. Let it spray your lips, maybe gently spread yourself with your fingers…” Oh how he wished he could do it himself, but he was much too far away.  

“Is that good? Roll your hips perhaps, let the spray run across your clit.” She jumped slightly then, and he hardened at the thought. “A bit too strong? Oh but you like it…” His hand was reaching for her right breast now, his fingers rolling her nipple. He imagined it was her clit and bit back a groan. 

“Let the spray hit the spot… when you spread yourself, does some of it reach _inside_ you? Why not try that? Just imagine it’s a little like my fingers, and what they like to do to you… Those long, piano fingers and how they like to reach into you…” 

He felt her hips gently rocking now, playing with the pressure. He wondered wildly what she was doing, what she wanted that jet of water to do. Was she liking it hard now, front and centre? Or softer and around the edges? Her breathing was getting harsher and he reached for her other breast, his right already squeezing her firmly. 

“I want to know…” he rasped amidst the roar of the jets. “That water, that spray… is it straight on your clit? Does it hurt? Do you care? Is it better than my tongue? Do you want my fingers in you? When that water shoots inside you, are you thinking of my cock? Are you liking how different it feels, and yet you still want my cock inside you? Tell me what you’re thinking, Sansa. I’d really like to know.” 

She moaned then, and he kneaded her breast. His own breath was slightly laboured now. 

“I’ll tell you what it’s like to have my cock inside you, sweetling. It’s a bloody glorious thing, to feel you fit me like a glove. When I pull out of you just slightly, I love watching how the lips of your cunt wrap around me like a second mouth, how they stretch thin before I ground myself back into you. 

“Do you know how tight you are, my sweetling. How you feel around my cock, my every godsdamn inch? And the taste of you is something I think about for days. I love to lick your pussy, have my tongue rut you until you come. Then suck you off hard and long and slow. I love how you rock your hips, baby… yes, just like how you’re doing now. When my fingers are inside you, and my hand is on your nub and I’m rubbing, and I’m rubbing, and I’m rubbing…” 

Her back arched then and he buried his face in her neck, biting her just as she cried, the sound rising high above the rushing water. His hands cupped and squeezed both her breasts painfully, but she didn’t seem to care. He groaned, delighted and frustrated and unbelievably turned on. 

“Let me have you,” she said, and she struggled to her feet. They both climbed out the tub, all arms and legs, ungraceful. Soapy water running like rivulets down their bodies but neither of them cared. Together they tumbled into bed, a mess of tangled limbs. His mouth on hers, her mouth on his, both hungry and devouring. She rolled on top of him and his hand went straight to her nub. Exactly where they had been dying to go not two minutes ago. 

“I can’t wait,” she said and straddled him, holding his cock in her hand. “Sorry I haven’t given you much attention,” she smiled at his member like she were talking to an old friend.  

She held him in place before sliding down hard on him in one quick motion. His groan was loud, even with the jets still going hell-for-leather in the bath. 

And then she rode him hard, picking up from where she obviously had left off. Her head tilted back, her hair shaken loose and hanging heavy behind her. He watched as her breasts bounced in unison from the effort, his hands on her hips urging her on. And then she came and he watched, mouth parted in slight wonder. He was still some ways to go yet but he didn’t really care. His hand shot up between her breasts to feel her heartbeat in his palm. He watched her touch the stars and was himself bedazzled.   

* * *

“This house isn't designed for anyone else, is it.” It was a statement, rather than a question. 

“It’s not kid-friendly, no.” 

“I don’t mean that…” She propped herself up on her side and looked around. “It’s a man cave. The slickest man cave I’ve ever been in. But it’s all just made for one person. It’s a big house, but it’s like you designed it just for you. I mean, the fact that you have a bathtub in the middle of your bedroom, no door, nothing!” 

"It’s my home.” 

“Have you brought other women back here?” 

He turned to look at her. “You’re the first.” 

He tried to ignore the rising panic, the shrill alarm going off in his core, his being.    


	12. Chapter 12

“I can’t believe you made this. This is yum.” 

Sansa closed her lips over her spoon and savoured the burst of flavours as the meat melted on her tongue. 

“It’s just Moroccan lamb meatballs and a lightly roasted potato smash.” 

“Well la-di-da. Still, I am _mad_ for this fabulous Greek yoghurt sauce you made with your bare hands. I have to say, knowing you cook so well has redeemed you after Rabbit Lunch.” 

Petyr grinned at her lazily and then quite deliberately flicked his spoon at her. Two splashes of mint yoghurt sauce landed across her chest. 

“Oops,” was all he had to say before he leaned over, easily brushing away her giggling attempts to fend him off as he slowly licked her breasts, his beard grazing her nipples languidly, making them peak again.  

The perils of eating dinner completely in the buff. 

“You’re right,” he smiled when he finally returned to his seat. “It’s delicious.” A thoughtful look. “I made chocolate sauce too." 

Later, she had lain across his stark-white _chaise longue_ so he could drip his homemade patent-pending secret-recipe chocolate fudge sauce across her body, starting with that vale between her breasts, meandering down past her belly button, and ending with an entirely more decadent  _digestif_ altogether.  

“So when did you get in cahoots with Tyrion?” 

“Very soon after you won the tender, actually.”  

Petyr raised an eyebrow. 

“That far back?” 

“Tyrion called me shortly after you all got the news. He thanked me for 'the opportunity to serve the nation’, and then he said something like, ‘I thought I should give you the heads-up that Petyr has put himself forward for the account management.” 

Sansa watched as Petyr froze. She watched as he collected himself, as he willed his features to smooth to a congenial blank smile. She watched him as he sealed off his vulnerabilities and she understood. She marvelled that she knew him well enough to know now. 

“So that’s when I realised he knows about us. He’s your Margaery.” 

“Except way hairier,” Petyr snorted. “With a bloody big mouth.” He paused. “I didn’t expect you to come so soon. I thought you’d arrive tomorrow after work, catch a plane out after three and arrive by five."

“Oh well,” she shrugged, striving for nonchalance. “I decided to take a few extra days off to enjoy Sydney for myself. Before everyone else joined in for your Christmas party.” She avoided his eyes then, but she felt him start to trace small light circles over her hand and stifled the urge to bring his own up to her mouth to kiss it. They could not stop touching each other. Margaery was right. 

Instead, she moved her hand away to tuck her hair behind her ear. 

"Who else is invited, by the way? Any other clients we know?” 

“Not really,” Petyr admitted. “A few other smaller government clients of ours we thought you might be interested chinwagging with — same sector and all — but it’s otherwise all for you guys.” 

“Is this a common thing, throwing a massive Christmas party for each of your clients?” asked Sansa suspiciously. 

“Only the ones who bring in ten million and more a year,” Petyr replied with a smirk.  

“I have something for you.” Sansa jumped lightly to her feet and flitted over to her bag. She returned with a small gift, beautifully wrapped in cream and black. 

“Happy Birthday.” 

Petyr’s mouth fell open. “How did you…” 

“I’m two degrees of separation from the Prime Minister, Petyr. I have my nefarious ways.” She grinned. “I had to do due diligence before signing on a new contractor and I came across the paperwork for your security clearance. Open it. It’s nothing very special, so stop freaking out.” 

"I am not freaking out." 

She was back on the couch now, knees drawn up under her chin, hugging them. She was suddenly nervous as he carefully pulled away the sticky tape. 

He opened the box with the cuff links first. 

“I saw these one day, and they reminded me of your tie pin. They look almost the same, actually. They're supposed to be mockingbirds. I thought you might like the matchy-matchy.” 

“They are stunning. And they match my pin almost eerily well.” He looked up at her and smiled. “Thank you.” 

She held her breath this time when he unwrapped the second box. 

“What’s this?” 

“A wax seal,” she explained. “I… uh… carved out your initials in that block of wood, along with that bird again. That’s all.” 

“You _made_ this?” 

“I used to do woodwork to rebel against the expectation of doing Home Economics classes.” He was staring at the seal intently, working out the tiny, painstaking detailing, mouth unsmiling. Sansa grew more nervous. 

“I mean… you don’t have to use it of course — it also makes a great paperweight. Especially if you really don’t care to have your name associated with a mockingbird. I carved out your initials at first, and then it looked so lonely so I kept going, and then I thought about matching the cuff links, except you already have the tie pin, and now suddenly you’ve got birds everywhere, and I—" 

He kissed her then, his nose beside her own, his mouth soft, lips gentle. His beard grazed her chin and she felt his hand reach behind her head before he pulled her even closer to him, deepening the kiss. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, his eyes piercing green and this time, she knew he meant it. “I really, really like it." 

* * *

At two in the morning, she turned around in his embrace and kissed his cheek, now rough with stubble.

“Where did you check in?” he knew to ask. She had come to him without luggage. He was a clever, observant man. 

“The Swissôtel.” 

His grip tightened on her momentarily, his arm possessive around her waist. But he murmured in her hair anyway, “I’ll drive you.” 

He was right. It really was a short commute from Surry Hills to the city, especially at half-past-two. They were silent, her hand resting on his inner thigh, his hand covering hers except to change gears.  

She did not ask to stay because he did not ask her to.  

He willed her not to leave but she left anyway.

* * *

The Blue Room Glass Boat was on schedule to leave King Street Wharf at seven sharp. This was it: a hundred and twenty public servants and advertising executives trapped for the next four hours on a double-decker charter boat hired to meander around Sydney Harbour in lazy circles while they all quaffed down stonking amounts of alcohol from the upper deck bar. What could possibly go wrong. 

Petyr took in the décor of the glass boat with satisfaction. They had themed it well; he had taken one look at their Christmas package and chucked it, going with his gut when he went for the wedding package instead. Much classier. Swirls of cream silk and black velvet, candles and mood lighting within the floating glass chamber accentuating the twinkling night lights lining the harbour. Sydney was a beautiful city, Petyr decided. It could be brash and gaudy and even horribly kitsch, yet ironically stunning because of it.  

The moment Sansa stepped on the boat, he felt his pulse quicken and his breath shallow infinitesimally. She had been shopping today while he worked, teasing him all day with hints of innocent-white cotton lace and seductions of silk. Every time his phone pinged, his cock would twitch slightly like a bloody pavlovian response. He took it all back. She was a _great_ photographer.  

The moment he took in her full form, her dress, his mouth went dry. Her hair was done up in a big blowzy do, her eyes smoky and dark, her lips left natural, glossy, voluptuous. Her heels were impossibly high; they changed her posture, her calves now longer and tauter, her delicious derrière high and tight. But it was her dress that he loved most of all. It was made almost entirely of black lace, the front neckline high and demure. It opened up to a wide, sexy U at the back that suggested no bra but stopped short of Obscene. Her lining was nude, the pale shade indistinguishable from that of her own perfect skin. She was fully clothed, and yet she looked gloriously naked. Naked and luminous and gift-wrapped in peekaboo black lace.  

The other men noticed. He noticed them noticing her, and his heart swelled with pride and violence.  

She caught his stare and smiled before sauntering quite deliberately to the other side of the boat. 

* * *

“Well, look at you!” 

Margaery stared, her mouth agape. “A little bit of Sydney and Elvis, and you’ve suddenly sexed up!” 

“Is it too much?” Sansa murmured anxiously. 

“It depends,” Margaery replied, looking over her friend admiringly. “If you intend to catch a man or five, you’ve already done it. I _like_ your earrings!" 

“I don’t intend to catch anything at all,” Sansa replied loftily, lips pursing when Margaery snorted in response. “And it’s not any sexier than what you’re wearing anyway.” 

“The difference, my darling, is that people have come to expect this of me. They don’t expect _you_ to play the vixen.” 

Margaery was dressed in a bare-shouldered flirty little black dress, huge red roses in stunning brocade tumbling across her left shoulder, down over her breast, tendrils of vine curling just above her right hip. She had pulled her hair back tonight, her rose-red lips matching the brocade of her dress and her unforgiving stilettos. Even with her killer heels on, she only came up to Sansa’s mouth. The dress hugged her lithe figure before flaring from the hips, and every time she twirled, one could almost hope to see where her thigh-high stockings began. 

“And they say the public service is dull!” Tyrion’s baritone rang out, and both ladies turned to grin at him. “You are both easily the most gorgeous women in this room. Let us drink to you.” And he promptly pilfered two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter for each of them.  

“To beautiful clients, both inside and out.” They clinked their flutes against his thick whisky glass.  

"What happened to the rest of your friends?” 

Margaery gave an exaggerated sigh. “Salmonella, we think. Or yet another bout of gastro and flu.” She shrugged. “Jeyne and Gilly were very sore about missing out, and were going to come but Catelyn pointed out that we’d be on a boat, so they'd probably feel like shit by the end of the first course.” She grinned. “More for us, I say.” She spied a gaggle of men hovering overhead near the upper deck bar. “Excuse me while I kiss a guy…” she murmured before disappearing into the growing throng. Sansa and Tyrion watched as she eventually resurfaced to climb the stair. 

“Are you enjoying your visit with us, Sansa?” Tyrion’s voice was pleasant, but Sansa had no doubt he was only referring to pursuits outside the office. 

“I am.” 

“Did our common friend enjoy his birthday?” 

“I think he did. And thank you for putting the idea in my head.” 

“Seemed an opportunity, since he never schedules any meetings on his special day but still insists on mooching in his room while we all pretend we don’t know. I thought it much more sensible that he take one good meeting and then bugger off, don’t you?” 

“It was a good meeting,” Sansa agreed with a straight face.  

“I _am_ glad,” Tyrion smiled. He raised his glass again and they toasted each other silently on a surprise well executed. 

“We’ll be leaving harbour soon. Perhaps we should join our friends upstairs,” Tyrion suggested, offering his arm with a gently mocking gallantry. Sansa smiled down at him and took it. 

* * *

The moment Sansa reached the upper deck, she saw him. Petyr was leaning against the railing wearing a crisp white shirt — top buttons undone — underneath a dark, perfectly tailored suit. She wanted to slip her hand under that shirt, brush his nipple, feel it harden. Watch his eyes turn dark and hungry. He was chatting animatedly to someone she didn’t recognise but their eyes locked for a brief moment as she moved towards the bar. There was that frisson again. He smiled but did not come to her, and she did not go to him.

She supposed she should go look for her parents, say hello. 

She took longer than she thought to find them; the upper deck was the same size as the restaurant below them, but almost everyone on board was trying to squeeze up here to take in the unimpeded view of Sydney Harbour on the al fresco half of the deck. 

Her mother saw her first. 

“Sansa!” Catelyn waved her daughter over before the small sea of people parted to reveal her daughter’s full outfit. Sansa watched as her mother’s mouth shrivelled in disapproval.  

“What are you wearing?” 

“A dress.” 

“I can see that, but this is a work function,” her mother explained in a patient voice that slipped straight under Sansa’s skin and grated there. “Surely you could have picked other less... revealing dresses than this?” 

“It’s a long dress. It’s over my knees, Mother!” 

“But you look almost _naked!”_ Her mother had whispered the last fiercely, her eyes darting about in case anyone should bother to hear them in the middle of a Christmas party.  

“I am fully dressed, Mummy,” Sansa replied stiffly. “It’s a Christmas cocktail party on a fancy boat. We’re all dressed up. Can’t you just tell me I look nice, like everyone else has been doing?” 

“I’m only thinking of your reputation, Sansa. You don’t want people getting the wrong idea about you.” 

Sansa stomped on the urge to laugh sardonically then. What was the _right_ idea about her, she wanted scream. Or rather, what were her parents’ idea about her that they were so keen for her to parade? They never did this with the rest of her siblings — most definitely not Arya, whom their father doted on like a boy anyway. Bran and Rickon did whatever they like, which is typical of children born so late in life and their parents were by then too old and tired to give a toss. And Jon was Jon — the one indiscretion that almost broke her parents' marriage and later proved the insurmountable stumbling block that forever prevented her father from entering politics for himself. The less said about Jon, Catelyn always thought, the better.  

The only sibling who seemed to carry the weight of her parents’ expectations like she did was Robb. Until he found a way to heartily aggravate his mother by marrying a Muslim woman and converting to her faith, if only nominally. Scandal! The less said about them, the better as well. 

“Just stay here, away from the light,” Catelyn finally suggested, pulling Sansa’s arm towards the railing and as far away from the bar as possible. “There. Your dress looks normal now.” 

Sansa fumed.  

Her father came over then and warmly kissed her cheek. “Have you had your dinner?” he asked absently.  

“None of us have, Daddy,” Sansa replied, half smiling at his distractedness. Ned Stark had always hated big fancy events that required small talk. The only reason he was even on this boat was the promise of speaking with the Minister of Agriculture’s Chief of Staff, who was apparently supposed to be at this party as well. 

“I heard you came up yesterday morning,” Catelyn quipped, eyes curious. “What brought you here early?” 

“Oh nothing much,” Sansa shrugged. “I wanted to do a quick tour of L&S’s facilities, and then I hit the shops for a bit. Did my nails. Took some time off for an R&R.” 

“Not secretly meeting a boy, were you?” teased her father. 

A quick flash of a full head of salt and pepper hair easing slowly down her body, tongue licking the last of the chocolate before he laved her own creamy centre.  

_No. Not a boy at all._

* * *

_Oh great. The fuckwits have found each other._

Petyr supposed it was only a matter of time before Ramsay Bolton met his soul sister: the brat prince of the L&S empire himself, Joffrey Fucking Baratheon. The two idiots were already punch drunk stupid and on the verge of incurring several reportable harassment incidents. The first course for dinner had only just finished.  

“Lothor,” he gestured over discreetly and the stocky man silently slipped over to him. 

“Keep an eye out for those larrikins, will you? Get the bar to water down their drinks if we have to. At the rate they’re going, I might have to throw one or both of them overboard before the night’s over.” 

* * *

Sansa had still not come over to say hello. Petyr realised that ignoring him was the height of discretion on a boatful of watching eyes, but he did wonder if they were both overdoing it.

Margaery walked over, an extra glass of red in her hand. She handed it to him without so much as a Hello. He took it from her after a beat. Until she walked over with it, he hadn’t realised how much he needed one. 

“I hear about a third of your floor got wiped out by a tummy bug,” Petyr drawled. “Such a pity. Should have chartered a smaller boat.” 

Margaery laughed. It was an attractive laugh, Petyr observed idly. Low, warm, almost throaty. She probably knew it, too. 

“We’re suspecting Salmonella from that new kebab shop everyone was raving about.” 

“Pity Ramsay didn’t try any.” 

“Ramsay hates Turkish.” 

“The food, or the people?” 

“Probably both, the fucker.”  

Petyr quirked a smile, then raised his glass to Margaery.

* * *

The Chief of Staff for the Minister of Agriculture was trying his damnedest not to leer at the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Deputy Secretary for Social Policy to the Prime Minister — his boss’s boss. 

But damn, wasn’t she a picture. That dress. And he was still a happily married man, but that dress.  

The girl was bored. She was a consummate professional and had never once, in the last forty-five minutes, ever let on how bored she actually was. She acted every bit the engaged listener; the nodding, the occasional question to clarify, the sweet laughter at the right moments. But he’d been in the game a long, long time. And he knew she was bored. 

He knew because he was bored himself. The music had ramped up and people were starting to dance. He’d much rather do that, to be honest, than talk about preparing the country for Web 3.0 when they weren’t even sure if they’d left Web 1.0 behind them.

* * *

The music was really thumping now. One could hardly talk without shouting. The Chief of Staff finally made his excuses and took his leave. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.  

She looked around the upper deck, craning her neck to look for Margaery. Was she dancing? Had she found someone to play cat and mouse with? There were no private rooms on this boat, as far as Sansa knew. Everything was glass, so it couldn’t be like high school where Margaery could slip off somewhere to make out with — in her words — "some brainless jock with a nice willy”, leaving Sansa at the mercy of stooges and self-centred bastards everywhere.  

Sansa’s eyes scanned the dance floor, then slowly moved along the sides of the boat. And then she saw them. Margaery having a quiet tête-à-tête with the attractive man beside her, who was holding a wine glass and chuckling quietly at something she said. 

Part of her turned to ice. 

She was just about to cross the room over to them, when she sensed someone walking towards her from the corner of her eye. She whipped her head impatiently, then froze as recognition hit her like a truck. 

_What in Seven Hells was he doing here?!_

* * *

“Uh oh,” perked up Margaery, suddenly alert. “Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh!”

“What is it,” Petyr asked, turning to look in the direction that Margaery was staring. 

“No… no no no no no… don’t do it!” 

“Do what. What are you talking about.” 

“Sansa! Over there. Talking to that big boofer — DAMMIT!” 

Petyr was suddenly alert as well, his eyes squinting in the dim light at the tall, blond young man standing next to Sansa. He could not lip read from this distance, but body language was often a lot louder than words could ever be. 

And this man’s body language was definitely exuding an obscene amount of interest in one Sansa Stark. 

Even from this distance, Petyr could tell the man was irritatingly handsome. He had that whole tall, blond, athletic schtick happening with him, the suit passably well-cut but the deep vee of his body unmistakeable. His chiselled face and cheekbones were noticeable even from here. He was like golden-haired Olyvar, except bloody straight. As was his golden cock for sure, the way he was standing next to Sansa, touching her elbow in a manner all too familiar for his liking. 

“Who,” he growled quietly, “is that.” 

“That,” noted Margaery flatly, “is Harrold Hardyng. Also known in Sansa’s world as The Boy who Got Away.” 

“Explain, please.” 

“We were in High School together, at Grammar. I don’t know if you realise this, but Lord and Lady Stark, for all their efforts to come off peasant-like and down-to-earth, are actually Old Money. Sansa is rich, just that she has way too many siblings and she has not come into her inheritance yet for obvious reasons — you see her parents on this boat. She has a huge trust fund waiting, but it’s set up so it only kicks in once she gets married. To someone her parents approve of.” 

“Harrold Hardyng.” The name was alliterative and acidic on his tongue. 

Margaery nodded, her nose wrinkled in obvious annoyance. “Harry is a player, plain and simple. I think we’ve all lost count of the number of abortions he arranged in High School alone. The boy likes to go commando, and foetus-crushing seemed to be the only form of contraception he cared for. Thing is, he’s also a fabulous actor. And he was loosely betrothed to Sansa.” 

Petyr stilled. 

“Not officially, nothing so arcane, but there was definitely an understanding. I think their families are related somehow, and Harry stands to inherit a vulgar lot of real estate and money when some cousin or half-brother or someone dies. Sansa’s parents _adore_ him. They think the sun literally shines out of his arse. And for a while there, Sansa did too. They were meant to be an item and for years, they were until one day about two years ago, Sansa literally caught him with his pants down, shagging our former Math tutor who had stalked him through Uni and was still shagging him on Sunday mornings, while Sansa was at church with her family.  

“We weren’t very close friends at the time, but in the course of unearthing all his past indiscretions, we got very close. I was the only one of her friends to open her eyes to the real Harry, and she, in turn, forgave me for my own dirty deeds with the man-whore.” 

“You slept with him. Behind her back.”  

“Hey,” Margaery snapped. “That was a long time ago, I didn’t know what a true sweetheart Sansa was yet, and I’ve regretted it ever since, okay? Lay off me.” 

Petyr chewed his bottom lip furiously and Margaery took that as her cue to continue. 

“And so she broke it off with him. And thankfully she didn’t get any STDs — I made her check. She’s such a bloody innocent in these kinds of things. Honestly thought she had given her virginity to her one true love, the silly romantic notions she used to keep in her head. But then, her parents! They couldn’t get over what she was ‘throwing away’. Kept bleating at her to try and patch things up, to ‘forget and forgive'. Her father, especially, lived in this La-La land where he still thought his daughter was a little girl having a silly playground spat with her boyfriend whom she just holds hands with. And Sansa, ever the lady, refused to divulge his indiscretions to her parents, insisting that they were not hers to tell.” 

Petyr’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “Seriously!” 

“ _That_ is Sansa,” Margaery finished grimly. “Almost noble to a fault in some ways, and willing to forgive if she values the relationship. The trouble with that, of course, is that she has the compassion and the capacity to forgive even _that_ asshole over there. And given how good an actor he is, that is a real possibility. Oi — where are you going!” 

But he was off now, his steps menacing and determined even if his plan of action was as yet unformed. He saw Sansa turn, her eyes widen when she realised it was him and he was about to join their party. 

“Sansa!” he beamed, and kissed her on both cheeks warmly. “I haven’t managed to say hello the whole night, we’ve both been so busy.” He turned to Harrold Hardyng. “Hello, I’m Petyr Baelish. I’m with L&S.” 

“Harrold Hardyng,” the asshole grinned, showing two perfect strands of pearly white teeth he longed already to punch in. “Just call me Harry. I just started with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs as one of their policy wonks.” 

“Right, right…” Petyr smiled even as he seethed. _Fucking gatecrasher._ There were a handful of those, he’d learnt during the course of the evening. They heard about the party from friends in their Ministries and thought they’d tag along, all the way to Sydney. _Desperate, cheap bastards._   

“And how do you know each other?” Petyr asked smoothly, ignoring for a moment the stricken look on Sansa’s face. 

“Oh this special lady?” the fucker grinned, and his arm reached across her shoulder, pulling her close to him in a friendly side-hug that was anything but. “We go way back, Sans and I. She was the One who Got Away.” 

“Oh?” Petyr replied, tone polite and curious. 

“Yes, she dumped me, this beautiful creature. A couple years ago. The heartbreaker,” he teased, smiling down on her face beatifically. 

  _I will kill the fucker, I swear it. Where’s Lothor._

“Harry!” a voice cried behind him. He turned to watch Catelyn Stark envelop the fucker in a warm, maternal hug. “What a lovely surprise! What are you doing here!” She laughed, delighted.  

Ned pumped his arm up and down like a bloody piston. 

“Good to see you again, son.” 

Sansa pulled away from Harry’s grip, shrugging him off again when he tried to return his arm around her shoulder. Petyr turned to look at her face then, and her eyes were wide and beseeching him. For understanding, perhaps? For something. 

“Ned Stark,” Petyr extended his hand, slightly surprising the older man. “Petyr Baelish. We haven’t met, but I work with your daughter. I’m the Account Manager from L&S.” 

“Right, right!” Ned replied, slightly taken aback but recovering quickly, ever the professional. The two men shook hands, but Petyr couldn’t help noticing how taken Catelyn was with Harry the Literal Fucker. 

“So tell me what you’ve been up to!” she chirped, hardly registering that Petyr was right there next to her. “Have you been busy? Where do you work now?” 

“With Foreign Affairs. I just started, ma’am.” 

“Oh please, call me Catelyn,” she beamed. “Does that mean you’re back in Canberra?” Her tone was so hopeful, Petyr’s gut twisted. 

He laughed, obviously pleased and flattered. “Yes, ma’am—I mean Catelyn. I’m back. Been back for a couple of months.” 

“Then you and Sansa should try and catch up sometime. Our offices are so close together!” 

“I’d really like that, actually. Yeah!" 

Sansa looked like she wanted to scream, and Petyr felt instantly gratified and then sympathetic.  

“Please excuse me,” she managed to grit out, and turned to walk away. 

“Where are you going, Sansa?” her mother called behind her. 

“To the ladies’ room, Ma!”  

Petyr mumbled his apologies to a confused Ned, before slipping quietly away himself. He found her eventually in the lower deck restaurant, standing behind a dining chair, both hands gripping the backrest tightly as she breathed heavily. 

“Sansa…” 

“Not now, Petyr.” 

His eyes darted around the room. No one was looking at them. He ducked his head around the corner and gestured at the wait staff in the small utility closet to leave before gently pulling Sansa into the tiny room with him.  

He hesitated for a moment. He had been waiting so long — the whole night — to kiss her, but now that they finally had a private moment, it seemed the least helpful thing to do. 

“Come here,” he murmured and his heart lifted when she moved towards him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and breathing him in. “I’ve got you,” he said, not quite knowing what that meant himself. But he rubbed her back gently and felt her start to relax. 

“I can explain…” she started to say, but he just shushed her gently, rubbing her back and rocking her slowly on the spot. 

Eventually they parted.  

“We can’t stay here forever,” he smiled gently.  

“I know,” she sighed resignedly. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” 

“Not really.” 

“That’s a real shame. I only threw this stupidly expensive party for you, you know.” 

She tipped his chin up and he wanted to laugh. She was so tall with those fuck-me heels on and yet he really didn’t mind at all. 

“Kiss me, Petyr.” 

“Okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The party's not over yet, people. There's a little more to come. ;-)


	13. Chapter 13

Eventually they resurfaced, Sansa’s blowsy hairdo decidedly more dishevelled and Petyr’s third button now discreetly done up. She had disappeared up the stairs first, after a quick visit to the ladies’ room. Petyr lingered around downstairs, checking in with the helmsman to ask for a fifteen-minute heads-up on their docking time. 

By the time he reached the deck, the party was in happy-drunk dance mode. The live band was trawling out camp old favourites now, and even the most discerning and toity connoisseurs of music were belting out well-loved lyrics with wild abandon. 

Petyr eventually spotted Sansa near the bar, presently accosted by the walking testosterone himself, Oberyn Martell. Miraculously, a seat freed up at the bar and Petyr settled himself on it to comfortably enjoy the view. 

Oberyn was using his Spanish accent this time. It was the most consistent. Almost all his buttons were undone to reveal his impressive mat of chest hair that looked almost stuck on, and the six-pack just under, embedded and gleaming like cobblestone after the rain. 

“You are so verrrry beautiful, do you know? The men in the rrroom, they are _dying_ to know who you are. Please, a name?” 

“Sansa,” she returned, her lips twisted in amusement.  

“Sansa. Sansa, Sansa, San-sah…” Oberyn played with her name in his mouth, on his tongue, and managed to make it sound almost obscene. This time she didn’t bother to hide her eyeroll, but the man was in possession of the healthiest ego in the southern hemisphere and was therefore impervious to thinly veiled derision. “Please dance with me, San-sah.” 

And because Petyr was grinning from ear to ear, she decided to acquiesce. Taking Oberyn’s dark, hot hand, Sansa allowed herself to be led further into the gyrating throng, sticking a discreet middle finger at Petyr from the small of her back. He laughed to himself and proceeded to order a half glass of house red.    

He could still see them, and he rather suspected that she knew it. He had never seen her dance before, but as she raised her arms slowly and started to move her hips in time to the pulsating beat but at half the tempo, he _knew_ she knew he was watching. Oberyn shimmied next to her, his chest hair dangerously close to giving her exposed back carpet burn.  

She flicked a glance at Petyr before pressing herself back against Oberyn. His grabby hands immediately found purchase around her hips and she firmly moved them away from her buttocks and towards her waist before breaking into a pulsing hip grind with him to an atrocious techno version of some singing hamster. 

“ _Oh_ _Princepessaaaaa_ …” he groaned in her ear, and looked dangerously close to nibbling her neck.  

Petyr knocked back his glass, and languidly hopped off the stool in one fluid movement. 

“I’m cutting in, Martell.” 

“Like ‘ell you are, Baelish. The lady and I have only just begun to make-a the sweet music!” 

“The lady and I have a meeting long overdue.” 

Oberyn eyed first Petyr and then Sansa, before shrugging nonchalantly. “There’s another _princepessa_ with red hair, over there.” And he dived in after her. Petyr was fairly certain he was referring to Ros, and smiled to himself. She could take care of herself, no worries. 

“Is he Spanish?” Sansa shouted over the music. “Or Italian?” 

“Neither. He’s a Kiwi,” Petyr grinned. “He just spends a lot of time baking himself at Bondi beach." 

She threw her head back and laughed. “Ripped OFF!” Sansa shouted back and grinned at him. 

Gods, he wanted to kiss her.  But he kept his arms firmly to his side, as did she. They danced, near the edge of the crowd now, the distance between them just skirting the bounds of collegial friendliness. Their arms bumped against each other as the crowds pressed in. Their hands brushed low. In the transition between the second and third song, his fingers found hers in the shadows. 

A cover of The Angels was playing now, and everyone on the deck cheered in appreciation.

_"Am I ever gonna see your face again?”_

To which the entire boat chorused, “NO WAY! GET FUCKED! FUCK OFF!"

Ramsay and Joffrey were clinging to each other and laughing hysterically now, obviously high on something other than mixers. Even the Chief of Staff for the Minister for Agriculture was seen mouthing the words, fist pumping the air while he bounced on the spot.

Sansa groaned and laughed. "How am I ever going to explain that one to my parents!"

"You'd be surprised. This has been a time-honoured rock tradition in our fair country since the '80s. Never mind that the song was about refugees or something. They might already know about this one.”

"Were you rockin' hard in the '80s, Mr Baelish? ”

"Never you mind, Miss Stark. ”

"You're such a cradle snatcher."  

He was going to say something verging on the lewd about snatches but stopped as he saw her expression change. Petyr turned to see Catelyn Stark gesturing determinedly at Sansa. Fucking Harry was beside her. 

“They saw me. I have to go. They know I saw them.” Sansa sighed. “And I was having so much fun!” 

“I’ll come with you,” he replied but she was already snaking through the crowd and making her way quickly to them. 

“Sansa, you’ll never guess what Harry just told me—the most awful news...” Catelyn’s eyes were anxious deep wells of pity and sympathy. 

“What?” Sansa asked her mother, before turning to look at Harry. 

“I was just telling your mother what I’ve been up to since I left Canberra and, well, we lost three properties during the Blue Mountains bushfires. Worst of all, the fires took the estate of my great-grandfather — the one I visited every holiday.” 

“Oh,” Sansa replied and Petyr watched as her eyes softened. “Oh Harry, I’m so sorry to hear that.” 

Harry shrugged, “It’s okay. I think I’m almost over it. The important thing is that no one died and we still have each other.” 

_Fucking fucker fuck fuck._

“Mr Baelish,” he heard, just before Catelyn Stark slipped her cool hand into the crook of his arm. “Why don’t we take a turn about this boat. Leave the young ones to catch up on old times, hmm?” 

* * *

Sansa felt herself led almost against her will back to the railings of the boat, away from the throng, apart from the music. She had turned around to look for him at several points, her eyes scanning the crowd for his shape, his form, his stare. But Petyr was no longer there.

“Sansa, please,” Harry begged when they had reached the bow. The glass enclosure and the upper deck bar stood behind them, a natural barrier that dulled the throb of music so they could hear one another more clearly, their voices dipping lower intimately. 

“Please,” he beseeched her, his beautiful chiselled face twisted in contriteness and anxiety, “can you ever forgive me?” 

He still smelled so good. Rich and well-groomed. Wealth can buy you that kind of smell. Sansa turned and looked at him. “I already have.” 

“But you don’t trust me.” His dark blue eyes bore into hers. “I’m sorry, I know. I have no right to expect anything else. But you cannot imagine how much I’ve regretted hurting you.” 

“No,” Sansa replied drily. “I really can’t.” 

“But I have!” He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she had been all too familiar with for five years except now it reminded her only of another. _Where is he?_

“That’s lovely, Harry,” Sansa replied stiffly. “But I think that ship has sailed, if you can forgive my pun.” 

She turned to move away but he grasped her hand. She tried to snatch it back, but he held on even tighter. 

“Please let go of me!” 

“No, Sansa, please — I love you!”  

She froze. 

“You  _what?_ ” 

“I said I love you! I still do!” 

She jerked her hand away. The tears sprang to her eyes, surprising her.  

“Five long years, I waited for you to say that.” And then she slapped him. 

* * *

She found him in the lower deck, his chair turned away from the rest of the room, blocking out the small groups of people either chatting around tables or else the newly-minted odd couples eating each others’ faces unabashedly in glass corners of the restaurant, emboldened by a night of free-flow drinks. 

“Whiskey,” she prodded and Petyr looked up tiredly before accepting the drink.  

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he mumbled sardonically, before taking a long sip. 

Margaery dragged another chair over to face his before dropping into it unceremoniously, almost missing the seat altogether. 

“Whoops,” she intoned, and then giggled. 

“How many have you had?” he asked, but he didn’t bother waiting for an answer. He spied a waitress in the corner and signalled her over with the crook of his two fingers. When she came over to them, Petyr relieved her of the entire tray of drinks, including the bottle of red. 

“Clever boy,” Margaery approved, and helped herself to champers. She kicked off her heels and pressed her toes against the metal of his chair, groaning as they flexed painfully. Her foot grazed his leg but she didn’t seem to notice.  

“Why do women wear such uncomfortably high heels?” he wondered aloud. 

“Because we know you men love them. They make our asses stick out, and that makes you think dark thoughts about our asses." 

“Wrong,” Petyr replied, swirling his whiskey, savouring the weight of the glass. “We think about your asses all the time. We don’t need your high heels.” 

Margaery tilted her head back lazily and laughed a slow, throaty laugh. He noticed the length of her neck, and how a neck like that would ordinarily move him to reach over and run a finger slowly up the length of it, before running his tip across the mouth. The good, ready ones would take the whole of his finger in and suck him off. And then it was game on. 

But he did no such thing, not this time. He just sat in his chair, looking at her. Like an Impotent. 

“Harry Hardyng’s really something, huh.” Margaery was toying with her champagne glass now, her fingers running up and down the stem of the glass absently. She had downed that drink real fast, Petyr realised. She had a frighteningly impressive liver. “You worried?” She looked at him pointedly now, her mouth not smiling. Her lips naturally rested as a pout, Petyr realised. Just a naturally sexy, sensual girl. Built for it. 

“Should I be?” 

“I don’t know…” Margaery shrugged, but Petyr knew she was being anything but nonchalant with her line of questioning. She was going somewhere with this. 

She placed the flute carefully back on the tray, then picked up a longneck. A pale ale, James Squire. He watched as she reached over and dragged another chair noisily towards her, held the bottle with both hands, and then brought the bottle down hard so the metal edge of the chair’s back caught the cap, lifting it right off. Petyr was suitably impressed by her precision in her inebriated state, and said as much. 

“I have many talents,” she grinned, taking a swig. He watched as her lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle and could’ve sworn she had taken more of the longneck into her own than was strictly necessary.  

_Interesting._

“You know, Harrold Hardyng fucked me many a time. Oh wait. I told you that before,” Margaery waved her hand vaguely in front of her, as if wiping a conversational slate clean. 

“Mmmf, we fucked like bunnies through High School. Every day, every which way. But then his family and Sansa’s family got it in their heads that they should probably make respectable, quality babies together when they got older. And I don’t know if you realise this yet, but you don’t just say no to Sansa’s family. Her mother especially.” Margaery raised her bottle to an imaginary Catelyn Stark before her bleary eyes. “Long may she reign.” Mocking. 

“Her mother can wish all she wants. Sansa knows her own mind.” 

“You sure about that?” An eyebrow raised. Cynical. 

“She wouldn’t just let her family dictate her every life decision. She’s a strong woman. And she wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice. She’s too smart.” 

“And yet, she fell for you.”  

Petyr’s head whipped up to stare at Margaery. She raised her bottle to him also.  

“It’s not like that between us.” 

“And you know this, how? You’ve been here five minutes. I’ve known Sans a long time. She always falls for the wrong man. She crushed on my brother. She fell for Harry the Man-Whore. And now she’s obsessed with you. There is a pattern with our girl. She likes emotionally unavailable men.” 

“What’s wrong with your brother?” 

“Nothing!” She laughed. “He’s great. He’s handsome. Olyvar would love him. We should set them up, actually. He would dine on Olyvar for _days_.” 

“Right.” She watched as he chewed on his lower lip, watched as it disappeared behind his white teeth, as he worried it. She knew what those teeth had done. She had seen a couple of Sansa’s marks, the ones at the back of her neck. Petyr, it seemed, could be quite the biter.  

“Here’s how well I know the both of them, Petyr. I’m betting Harry’s up there with Sans right now, telling her how much he still wants her babies. And I’m betting that Sansa, for all her ladylike protestations, might actually consider it. You want to know why?” 

Petyr’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t do speculations.” 

“It’s not speculation, it’s an educated guess. She’ll consider it because it’s Harry. And she’ll consider it because you haven’t actually claimed her.” 

“ _Claim_ her!” he laughed humourlessly. “She’s not luggage. And it’s not that kind of a relationship. It’s not even…” He stopped. It was not even a relationship. Not officially, not publicly, perhaps not even in private. She had never pledged herself to him, nor he to her. They just _were_ , ever present with each other, always in the moment.  

_So why was he suddenly having so much difficulty breathing?_

“Hey,” she shrugged. “If you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it.” 

_Oh gods, no._

The room was spinning slightly now. Petyr dropped his head into his hands and waited for the feeling to pass, for the room to stop. Better ease off on the whiskey. He hardly touched his dinner in the mad rush of playing host, he realised belatedly. _That’s why._

“You know,” Margaery continued idly, as if she hadn’t noticed the sudden wanness of his face, “you and I are one and the same, really. I keep it light and easy. I live for work. I have my fun. Nothing personal, just work.” 

She opened the clasp of her clutch bag then, and took out a small white card. She eased herself off the chair, slipping into her own fuck-me shoes before handing the card to him, her eyes dark, a strange smile on her face.  

He recognised the dramatic angles of her handwriting. An address. 

“If you ever want it light and easy again, you know where to go.” 

* * *

“You hit me!”

“Yes I did.”

Sansa turned on her heel and stalked off. There was nothing left to do. She had finally done it. All those years of grieving for him and jumping around the five stages, and she finally got to _rage_. 

Better late than never. Better out than in. She always knew she was a slow learner, but she got there in the end. 

She had rounded the bar until she was just able to see the open deck again when he caught her hand. 

“I tell you I love you, and you hit me?” 

Sansa spun around, her eyes incandescent.  

“You don’t love me,” she spat back, the full heat of her fury now punctuating each word as she yanked her hand away. “You _cheapened_ me. You cheapened us. And for five whole years, I hung around like your pet poodle waiting for you to tell me that you loved me, and you knew it. ‘Oh babe,’” she mimicked, doing a fair impression of Harry, ‘they’re just words, we don’t need to say them, you and I — we’re special.’ When all that time, you never told me you loved me because you never did. At least in _that_ regard,” she reflected scornfully, “you were honest." 

“But I’m telling you I’ve changed. After you left, I _knew_. I always loved you. I love you now…” Harry stepped towards her, and the way his head eclipsed the moon, the light spilling over him like a halo… The way his eyes, now haunted and beautiful, held her own. He always had such a beautiful face, she remembered. Photographers _loved_ him. On the rare occasion she opened a magazine and chanced upon that face, it never failed to stun her. Her heart used to pound violently for a second or two, remembering what she used to have and what she had walked away from. 

He reached over once more for her hand, and then surprised her when he spun her into his embrace. _Smooth, real smooth._

She fell against him, and her hand flew up instinctively to brace herself against his flat, toned chest. For a moment there, her face was against his silk grey shirt and she breathed him in, in spite of herself. He was tall, so tall and they had always looked so good together whenever she caught their reflection in the glass, whenever they appeared in the social pages. He had always made her feel so small. 

He did the last exceptionally well, in the end. 

She looked up to find him staring at her, his lips parted. For a whisper of time, she wondered what it was like to kiss him again.  

And then she saw them. The unmistakable cluster of tiny bruises tucked in the shadow, between his jawline and his ear. Still fresh, from the looks of it. 

“Having a pleasant evening?” a dangerously silky voice sliced into the air, and Sansa wrenched away from Harry on reflex, her face heated, her demeanour guilty. 

“Do you mind?” Harry replied to Petyr, tone annoyed. “We’re having a private moment here.” 

“No, we’re finished, Harry.” And Sansa looked him squarely in the eyes to drive her full meaning home. She stepped towards Petyr and glanced at him anxiously, but his face was the picture of practised affability. It left her feeling cold. 

“What’s this?” an obnoxious voice called out, and all three turned to stare as Ramsay and Joffrey stumbled towards them, their arms locked across each other’s shoulders in drunk solidarity and mateship, but mostly for physical support. Sansa watched as Petyr grimaced, his every muscle suddenly tensing ever so slightly. 

“Oi Baelish,” a thin, weedy voice called. “Who you hiding there? Is that the hot sheila from PM&C?” 

“This is Miss Sansa Stark, Communications Manager at the PM&C,” introduced Petyr smoothly but his eyes were alert and they trained on Joffrey as the latter leered at Sansa’s dress before lifting her hand to plant a wet kiss on it. 

He watched as she smiled stiffly before retracting her hand to surreptitiously wipe the back of it on her dress.  

“Yes, her Royal Highness, Miss Sansa Stark,” sing-songed Ramsay with a malicious smile. His breath was rank with booze. "This was the girl I was telling you about, Joffers.” His smile was all teeth and Petyr clenched his fist reflexively. “Keeps a real tight ship, this one. Real tight arse in the office, and a frigid little bitch as—“ 

“Hey!” snapped Harry, stepping forward and pulling Sansa behind him. “That’s no way to talk to my lady!” 

“ _Your_ lady,” Joffrey held his hands up. “I apologise for my friend here, sir. But you see, I told him all about my mother and how she thinks there’s something going on with Dirty Ol’ Pete here and his client. Ho _yes_.” He peered over Harry’s shoulder to gaze at Sansa and smiled nastily, “Name’s Joffrey. My mother owns L &S, and more beside. She’s also this old man’s boss.” He grabbed and squeezed Petyr’s shoulder, giving it a good shake. Petyr’s other fist clenched.  

“You’re a classy chick. You seem to like rich boys,” Joffrey leered at Sansa. "Maybe we could get together some time.” 

“Joffrey…” Petyr warned. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Sansa stepped away from Harry’s shadow and rejoined the group. Her face was flushed bright pink in fury. 

Harry looked a little angry and a lot confused. 

“Petyr…” Joffrey mimicked in return, and both Ramsay and Joffrey started giggling maniacally. “Petyr… Peeeetyr…" 

“How dare you.” Her voice was so low that at first he wasn’t sure if he heard right. The rest of them clearly didn’t, the two fuckers still chortling. 

“How _dare_ you!” And this time they all heard. Before he could think to stop her, Sansa took two indignant strides forward to throw a pretty average punch at the smug little prick’s face.  

“FUCK ME!” Joffrey yelled, but before he could hit her back, Petyr swung deep, connecting with Joffrey’s puny stomach with a satisfying _whump_. The wretched boy doubled over, his shitty little face twisted in shock and pain, and Petyr caught him as he fell. 

“There, there, Mr Baratheon,” Petyr soothed. “I got you. Too much to drink, eh? Let’s go back downstairs and dry you off.” 

“You little fucker!” snarled Ramsay. But by then, Harry had snapped awake. Before Ramsay could jump on Petyr, Harry stepped in with an efficient left hook, punching Ramsay's mottled face before following up quickly with a right hook under his cold, black heart.  

Just at that moment, a John Paul Young soundalike belted out the chorus and the entire deck erupted into song with him. 

_“Love is in the air!"_

And then all hell broke loose.  

* * *

“What. The cunting fuck. Just happened.” Cersei's mouth was twisted into a snarl, anxiety pinching at the crows’ feet in the corners of her eyes. “Baelish, you’d better explain…”

“He hit me, Ma!” Joffrey’s reedy voice wheezed piteously. He was lying across a row of chairs, still doubled over even though Petyr was fairly certain he would have recovered by now. 

“YOU FUCKING HIT MY SON?!” 

“I intervened in a difficult situation, ma’am.” Petyr’s eyes were cold, even as his tone was neutral. Conversational. “I merely wanted to distract Joffrey before he _punched our female client._ ” 

“THAT BITCH DESERVED IT!” he yelled, and if Petyr’s job and Sansa’s own safety were not on the line, he would have walked right over and kicked the living _shit_ out of that skinny fucker, doing it properly this time instead of that half-arsed move earlier. 

“Wait.” Cersei’s eyes sharpened as the pieces in her brain fell into place. “Are we talking about Sansa Stark?” Her eyes burned into Petyr. “You hit _my son_ over this girl you’re leching over?” 

“There is no leching, and _that girl_ , as you call her, happens to be _our client._ Whose _father_ happens to be a personal friend of the Prime Minister while also being a Deputy Secretary of the fucking Ministry of the P. M. AND. C. In whose honour this party was thrown together in the first place!” Petyr ran his hand through his hair, desperate to regain control of his emotions. _Dafuq_ with the Lannisters, honestly. So bloody-minded. To think that this little shithead was going to inherit it all. The company was going down the toilet. 

“I don’t care if she’s our client,” Cersei's mouth hardened into a sneer. “My Joffrey wouldn’t hit a fly. She must have deserved it.” 

It had taken all of Petyr’s self-control not to throw a chair at the glass window right this minute. He took a deep shuddering breath. 

“You will make _that girl_ apologise for starting this.” 

“I will do no such fucking thing. Ma’am.” 

“And I will press charges against you, Baelish.” Her mouth curled into an ugly smile of triumph. “Let’s see what a day or two in jail will do for your security clearance with any government ministry.” 

“Then I will let them know about the cocktail of drugs your son inhaled this evening,” Petyr replied with a tired sigh. He hated doing this, pulling out his trump card, but he couldn’t afford to lose his security clearance.  

“You have no proof.” 

“Don’t need one. You know just as well as I do that your son is a chronic user. Cocaine alone stays around for, ooh, about twelve days? A simple drug test should suffice.” 

The fury of defeat on Cersei's face. The satisfaction was certain but short-lived. He will pay for this in other ways. 

In his periphery, he noted the helmsman bouncing on his heels nervously. Petyr quietly excused himself and walked over. 

“It appears we are docking in fifteen minutes,” he informed the room on his return. _And not a moment too soon._

* * *

“Well. That was rather exciting.”

Sansa cast a sidelong glance at Margaery and thankfully her good friend had the sense not to actually be smiling. 

“I just want this night to end,” Sansa breathed. 

The Swissôtel was within walking distance of the wharf, thank goodness. At first they had tried to flag down a cab, both now too exhausted to even contemplate the short walk, but they had given up eventually when the entire boat thought to do the same. Margaery and Sansa held their heels in their hand as they trudged along the pavement. 

“Harry’s been working out,” Margaery mused. “New kickboxing instructor, maybe? He’s fast.” 

“I don’t care,” Sansa replied truthfully. And again. “I just want this night to end.” 

The fight between Harry and Ramsey had been fairly short-lived, although none of them anticipated what a dirty fighter Ramsay could be. All teeth and nails. Sansa shuddered. He was like a rabid dog. Thankfully, Harry’s modelling contract, natural vanity, and self-preservation ensured that his beautiful face remained unscathed, although there were slashes on his body that Sansa was sorry he had to bear.  

For her sake. Oh gods. All those men, fighting in part because of her. _The embarrassment._   

She wondered if she had to fill out a bloody report when she returned to the office on Monday. 

“Sansa, Sansa!” she heard her mother’s voice, and she whipped her head around to find her parents walking towards her briskly. 

“I’ll catch you later,” Margaery squeezed her friend’s arm sympathetically. “See you back in our room.” 

“Sansa,” Catelyn breathed as the older lady finally caught up. “Where are you going?” 

“To my hotel room, to sleep.” 

“You could hang around with us for a little while. We’ve arranged for the private charter to fly us back. We’ll arrive in Canberra by two in the morning, but at least you won’t have to spend Sunday travelling. Maybe even get to church tomorrow morning, if you’re lucky.” 

“It’s okay, Mum.” Sansa smiled wanly. “I’m just too tired. I need a nice big bed and room service in the morning. And I’ve already paid for the room and my flight.” 

“If it’s on the work account, you know you can always make changes to your flight,” Catelyn insisted, but Sansa shook her head. 

“Just… no thank you, Mum. I’ll be fine.” 

Catelyn eyed her daughter critically, and her next few words made Sansa cringe inwardly even though she was sure to remain implacable on the outside. 

“Sansa,” her mother entreated in a low voice. “I hope your relationship with Petyr Baelish is purely professional.” 

“Yes it is, Mum. Of course it is.” The lies were getting easier with each passing year, each little unwelcome intrusion.  

But Catelyn was sceptical. “The way he looks at you…” She shook her head. “That fight happened very suddenly. And Harry had mentioned something that Joffrey had said. Are you sure Petyr doesn’t have inappropriate feelings for you?” 

“Mum!” And Sansa tried to laugh it off, even if she felt a little bit like crying in frustration. “Those boys are assholes. You can’t be serious, taking their word for anything.” 

“I don’t like that kind of language, Sansa. It’s not ladylike. I brought you up better than that.”  

She sighed in resignation. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m just tired.” 

“You won’t encourage him, this Petyr? I know he’s managing our account, but I can always speak to his boss, ask for a change—“ 

“NO, Mother. Please. Just leave things be.” 

“I just want to protect you.” A beat. “Harry did very well tonight by you.” 

“Not now, Mother.” 

“I think it’s obvious he still has feelings for you. Sansa!” Catelyn lifted her arms in exasperation. “Why won’t you give him a chance? He’s a lovely man. His adopted family is one of the most established in New South Wales. They’re upstanding citizens. You look so good together.” 

“Relationships… _chemistry_ doesn’t work like that, Mother!” 

“That’s just childish thinking, Sansa. Your father and I were arranged. Love grows when you want it to.” 

Sansa sighed deeply. _I just want this night to end._

“It’s not this Petyr Baelish, is it? You don’t have feelings for him, do you? Is that why you won’t even consider Harry?” 

A small, strangled cry escaped Sansa’s throat before she could stop it. 

“Because if it’s true, you have to stop. It’s unseemly!” 

Sansa snapped finally. 

“Not that it’s true, but even if it were, _so what?_ ” Sansa cried. “What if we were? Would it be such a big deal? I’m in my twenties, it’s not like I’m seventeen. And Petyr Baelish has been nothing but a gentleman with me. You are so caught up all the time with appearances and what is appropriate or what looks _unseemly_ … Can’t you just let live for a change? Stop living your life by the standards of others?” 

“Sansa Stark,” Catelyn’s face was grave and hurt. “That’s not fair and you know it. Our family isn’t like any other family. Don’t talk to me like you’re Middle Class Suburban when you know very well that you’re comparing apples with caviar. You were born into a different kind of family, and like it or not, you have _responsibilities_. The male line is important. Petyr Baelish, if you were even possibly _thinking_ of yoking yourself to him, is simply not on an equal standing!”  

Both Mother and Daughter stared at each other unhappily. Both of them, the spitting image of one another if time travel were real and possible. Catelyn Stark sighed. 

“I am hard on you because I see your potential. I just want you to make wise decisions.” 

Sansa closed her eyes. Her mother’s wise decisions lately never seemed to coincide with her own. 

* * *

“Was it very bad?” Margaery clicked her tongue sympathetically as Sansa dropped into the armchair wearily.

“What do you think.” 

“You look like hell. Going to Elvis's later?” 

Sansa shook her head. His phone was dead, and as much as she wanted to check in with him to see if he still had a job after punching his own boss’s son in the gut ( _oh gods!_ ) for her sake, part of her thought it best to start afresh the next day.  

She had a long shower, changing the nozzle so the water beat down punishingly on her body, massaging the kinks in her back from arching in those shoes all night. When she finally exited the shower, Margaery was in her bed watching a rerun of a talk show. She whistled while Sansa hung up her dress in the wardrobe. 

“The dress that almost sank a ship.” She grinned. “Too soon?” She wondered idly if the dress was too long for her. Surely Sansa wouldn’t mind a borrow? 

“I have a confession to make to you, Sans.” 

“Oh?” And she watched as Sansa sank slowly into her own bed, a solemn curiosity on her face. 

Margaery took a deep breath. 

“I hit on Baelish tonight.” 

A slow blink from Sansa. 

“I was a little drunk, although I played up the drunk bit. Harry was all over you and then you guys disappeared. And the last thing I wanted was for you to fall into that dickhead’s arms.” 

“Gee. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

“Anyway.” Another deep breath, but at least Sansa didn’t seem angry, just curious. “I just wanted to know, you know? What Baelish actually feels about you. Didn’t want you careening from one jerk to the next. And maybe it was the Tequila, but I thought if I flirted with him and he flirted back, then at least I’d know where he stands.” 

The television was still blaring, and Margaery flicked the volume down distractedly as she prepared what to say next. 

“And so I cosied up to him the whole night. Subtly. Just, you know, did my thing. But he didn’t budge at all.” 

“Maybe he just wasn’t attracted to you in that way,” pointed Sansa out drily. 

“No,” Margaery replied. “He was interested. Men usually are. But he didn’t budge at all.” 

She took out her clutch then, and when she passed the card over to Sansa, her friend’s eyes widened with puzzlement and curiosity. 

“I gave him my home address, Sansa, along with an offer not easy to refuse for a man like him. And he returned it. He was attracted to me. I know he was. But ultimately, he’s loyal to you. Sans, my darling, I think you have a boyfriend." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ The Angels, for the curious.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-VZP1pCIL8)


	14. Chapter 14

The cold light of day. Things were often different in the cold light of day. 

Petyr poured himself a tall glass of mint-laced water from the fridge in the kitchenette leading off from his bedroom. Drank it all up in one go, no breaks. And then he refilled his glass with Scotch before sauntering over to the glass-roof covered courtyard beyond it. Summer mornings were still cool, that’s what he liked about Sydney. The afternoons could hot up enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk and give you skin cancer just by thinking out loud, but as soon as the sun disappeared, there was usually reprieve from the heat.  

He sank into the round wicker daybed and thought idly about how sex on this with Sansa might work.  

Sansa.  

In the cold light of day and with Scotch in his belly and little else, the realities of last night’s theatrics were starting to sink in like a bad hangover. He had punched Cersei’s little shit. And then he had threatened to expose said little shit’s drug habit before completely defying orders from the Mothershit to bring Sansa to heel. And all because Harrold Fucking Hardyng had fucking looked like he wanted to fuck Sansa.  

And she had looked, for a moment, like she just might let him. 

It was not reasonable. It was not reasonable for him to think she couldn’t play with others. If Sansa had gone Kill Bill over the fact that Ros wanted to have a friendly bonk with him, he would have been annoyed.  

At least, he was fairly certain he would have been annoyed.  

He would have then about-turned and run for the hills. He was fairly certain he would have run for the hills. 

But fuck, they were close. Him holding her like some fucking teen hunk and she pressed up against him and staring into his face. Staring _up_ into his face. Her hand — _her hand_ — on his _fucking chest_. 

He couldn’t deny it. They were movie-star gorgeous together. They probably shagged like movie stars on camera, all slow motion and perfect angles. They probably didn’t shag — movie stars don’t shag. They probably _made love_. Petyr wondered if there were prosthetics involved. Tangents.  

He was going mad. 

He fumbled around the matching wicker table until he found them. Cigarettes. Even a lighter. They were going to be so stale, gods know how long they’ve been there, but he lit up anyway and took a deep drag. 

She owed him nothing. He owed her nothing. She didn’t own his time, and he didn’t own hers. Except when push came to shove, he chose not to cop off with the best friend, while she didn’t resist her ex. If he hadn’t cut in right that moment… 

How the hell had he ended up on the backfoot? He was a player, but right now it sure felt like he was losing. And if Petyr can’t win, he won’t play. 

_Shit, this Scotch is strong._ He wandered back into the kitchen, found the bottle. Tyrion’s pick. The man would drink perfume if he ever ran out of plonk. 

His phone was still on the kitchen bench. He had turned it off last night after that ridiculous altercation and just before they were going to dock. He didn’t know why, he just did. Petyr eyed it warily but after a sigh, he turned it back on finally. Many missed calls. Many, many. But only one from Sansa. That was her. Self-controlled, ever the proud lady. She would never chase a man. Never do a Lysa and flood his voicemail with screeching and then begging and then screeching and then cooing and then ending with some bizarre rendition of dirty talk that left him cringing until he got a cramp. No. Sansa would never throw herself at him. One phonecall and even if it killed her, she would leave the ball in his court. She would never beg. 

He had _adored_ that about her. The dignity. The haughtiness. Something so old-school about it. All prim and proper until he had her writhing in his arms, making sounds that were anything but. But what if that aloofness, that distance wasn’t armour after all, just her _au naturale_? What if she only called once, because that was all the emotional energy she had for him in her life before she moved on to the next thing? Or the next man. Fucking Harrold Hardyng. 

Or... the opposite — what if she loved him so deep down, no one knew? Which was more terrifying? 

His phone rang suddenly. The notes sliced through the silence and he actually jumped. She was calling him! But he willed himself not to pounce on the phone. Not to react. He had lasted this long without hearing from her, he can do this now. He will remain impervious. He watched the phone ring, each second a new test. He took another long drag. 

* * *

She counted the seconds and wondered how long it would take for him to walk from the furthermost point of his house to his front door. Maybe he was in the shower and couldn’t hear her. In which case, what was the point of ringing again? 

Unless... he just stepped _out_ of the shower, and didn’t know she was out here because he missed the first chime. Sansa lifted her hand. She should ring the bell again. It had been long enough. 

But what if he was avoiding her. Her hand dropped again. 

She was just about to turn and leave when she heard the lock turn. 

“Oh good,” she intoned, glaring at him. “You’re alive.” 

It was warming up to mid-day, but he was still in his sleepwear — pants only, no shirt. He was a mixture of heady smells — his natural musk mingled with sleep, the alcohol, cigarette smoke, and a handful of spearmint gum. He was chewing the gob now, forcing it around his long, sharp tongue before blowing out a tiny, obnoxious bubble. It popped before it got anywhere interesting.  

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” she asked at length and he smiled lazily, before tipping his head towards the stairs.  

“Of course, sweetling. Come in.” 

He grabbed her suitcase without asking and they climbed up the stairs. This time he didn't let her go up first. Usually he’d make a point to, all the more to stare up at her ass she was sure. But no, he went up two steps at a time and she found she had to double her pace to catch up to him. 

She dropped her handbag on the floor, slightly unimpressed. A little puffed from the quick climb. A little bemused. 

“Look, I can’t stay very long, because my flight leaves in two hours. But I thought it’d be good to talk about what happened last night before I returned to the office.” 

He shrugged and she felt a little like punching him. It was insouciant, almost  _careless_. 

“What’s there to talk about?” 

“What happened last night,” she repeated herself. “The fight, for one thing. Are you in trouble with your boss? Tyrion just explained who Joffrey is.” 

He shrugged. “It is what it is. I still have my job. For now.” 

“For now…” she repeated again. She was starting to feel like a parrot. “So does that mean your job is on the line? What?” 

“It means I live to fight another day. I can handle Cersei, sweetling. Don’t worry about me.” 

It was the way he said it. As if she was silly for even asking. A flash of irritation shot through her, but she pressed on. 

“I think we should also talk about… what happened before the fight. What you saw.” 

She thought he stiffened slightly at those words, but the smile that stretched across his face belied that.  

“What did I see?” 

“You know… me… with Harry…” She inhaled deeply and expelled the air quick. “We were… hugging.” 

“Hugging.” 

“He had pulled me to him. I lost my balance, that’s all. And then you were there.” 

“You know?” He replied, “That’s nice and all? But you don’t have to explain. You were talking to an old friend. I interrupted.” 

“I’m trying to tell you what actually happened!” 

“And you just did. I understand now. Well done.” 

“Can we just talk about this properly?” This was going utterly pear-shaped. Why was he being such an exasperating ass? She wanted to scream, except she was sure that would also stretch his smirk wider. _Asshole_.  

She watched as he brought the whisky glass to his lips, as he spat the gum out.  

“ _You_ want to talk,” he replied, walking towards her slowly, his smile still wide but not quite reaching his eyes. “And talk if you must. But I am done talking.” 

When he pulled her to him, it was with a roughness she did not anticipate. He kissed her hard, his mouth heated and possessive, his tongue searching and rude. She felt her head snap back from the force of it, and she did not like that.  

She tried to push him away, but he just wrapped his arms around her tighter, drawing her into him. He ground himself into her centre, but he was not even hard. Not like he always was. Something was wrong, but his kisses were scorching. And yet they were empty and strange. 

She bit down, just slightly. But it was enough to get his attention. He pulled back, indignant. Stuck his tongue out and that was when she realised her teeth were sharper than she thought. He tasted the blood gingerly, then stared at her. 

“Sorry,” she offered, but she was still angry. “What was _that!_ " 

He shrugged. _That shrug again!_ Now she really wanted to hit him. 

“Your flight leaves in two hours. I thought you were here for a quick fuck.” 

And this was how Sansa found herself slapping two men within an eighteen-hour period. Except this time she was better at it. 

Slowly, an ugly, angry deep-red appeared and she started to see the faint print of her fingers. A small part of her was mortified, but she was mostly still pissed. Pissed, and confused, and hurt, and… 

_Oh._

“Are you _jealous_?” She asked incredulously. “Is this what this is about?” And this time she definitely saw him stiffen. 

“You _are_ jealous!” Her mouth was shaped into an O. A quick succession of feelings. Disbelief. Surprise. Understanding. Anger. Elation. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why should I be.” 

“You saw me with Harry. You thought I was going to let him kiss me, weren’t you.” 

“And if you did, so what? You’re a free woman.” 

“Oh don’t give me that _crap_ , Petyr. You’re not twelve.” And this time she stepped towards him and grabbed his face with both hands to kiss him with all she had.  

He froze for a moment and then she felt him relax as he started to kiss her back. Mint and whiskey and him mingled in her mouth and she sighed into him. 

Her kisses, they started to travel up the very cheek she just branded with her hand. They inched towards his left ear, his sensitive, _sensitive_ ear... “You know,” she murmured between nibbles and licks, "Margaery told me she hit on you.” 

“She did.” 

“Did you want her?” Her breath skated over his ear. He shivered slightly and she smiled to herself. “She said you wanted her, you know.” 

“She did?” A pause.  “She’s not wrong.” 

A twinge within her person, but she tamped it down and continued with her game. 

“What did she do to you?” And she ran the tip of her tongue around the edge of his ear and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. “Did she do that? Did she know about your ear? Or how about this?” And this time, she darted her tongue inside. A quick flick. Another. He groaned just a little. 

“Nothing much,” he mumbled, his breath shortening. “Just a little footsie, a graze of my leg.” 

“Do you still want her?” And this time she blew just a little, a thin stream of cool air. Juxtaposed with the rutting she just did to his ear, he shivered again. 

“And if I said yes?” he asked, his voice breathy. “How would that make you feel?” 

“Like fucking killing you, that’s what.” 

Something like a growl escaped from the back of his throat and this time when he snapped her head to face him, she was ready. Their mouths collided, teeth clashed, his tongue aggressive and avaricious, and she gave back as good as she got. His arms wrapped around her silk blouse, fabric balled in two fists as he pulled her close and this time she felt the length of him grinding into her sex and she smiled into his mouth.  

Her hands roamed his back and then dived under the elastic of his pants to grab his ass and squeeze as hard as she could. He saw her ass-grab and raised her a torn blouse, ripping about three buttons from the front as he clawed desperately for access to the lace underneath. She heard the buttons scatter across his polished timber floor. 

“Hey!” she protested indignantly. “That’s new!” 

“I’ll get you a new one,” he growled. “White. So I can see that gorgeous lace on your bra for a change.” 

“You’re such a perv—oh!” as his mouth found a breast, his tongue licking through the lace until it was wet, until the abrasion caused her nipple to harden painfully. He walked her backwards until the back of her legs hit the baby grand and she got the hint and leaned back, her ass half-pressed on the keys as a dissonant chord played. He pulled the rest of her blouse off, balled it and flung it across to the other side of the room. She grabbed his pants and yanked down, not bothering to ease the fabric up and over his swollen, seeping cock. His hands dived under her skirt, fingers digging under her wet panties and pushing the crotch piece aside. She spread her legs and adjusted her pelvis just in time to receive his fingers. 

A gasp. Always a gasp. He started with one which quickly became two, and she wrapped her hand around his member and stroked him hard as he flicked his fingers up and expertly found that magical spot. He felt longer and thicker today and she was already dying for all of him to be inside her. His mouth met hers again, and again that collision, that desperation, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance. 

And then he flipped her so she was now on her front, his cock pressed into the groove between her two cheeks. Her pelvis leaned on the keys and another chord played, random notes sliding as she moved away. 

“This isn’t comfortable.” 

“Then let’s get you comfortable.” And they stumbled from the piano, and tumbled into the generous armchair not too far away. He worked the zip and yanked down her skirt, then made quick work of her panties and bra. 

“So tell me,” he was saying conversationally now, casually hooking one of her legs around an arm rest, and then the other. She was splayed for him like a human orchid, and he sucked the length of his fingers before he drove them into her again so she gasped.  

“So tell me,” he said, “what your ex-lover did. Dear Harry. Favoured son of the Stark tribe. Was he much of a fingers boy?” 

“Let’s not do this, Petyr.” 

“Oh, but I want to know. Did he ever eat you?” 

She blushed. She could see where this was headed. No one would be a winner here. 

“I’m not going to answer you.” 

“I already know the answer, sweetling. I knew it the first time I dined on you. He didn’t.” And then his mouth covered her sex, his tongue punishing and fevered, his fingers working her expertly so her honey came thick and fast despite herself. She moaned, but she was also furious. 

“Stop talking about him,” she hissed. "Leave him out of this.” 

“Oh but you asked about Margaery,” he purred. "You wanted to know if I wanted her. And I want to know if you still want him. Quid pro quo, darling.” 

And this time his lips found her clit and he pulled painfully until she cried out. And yet he still knew too well when to let go, how the pleasure would flood back in with the release.   

She unhooked her leg and pushed him off with her foot. Hard. 

“This isn’t fun for me anymore, Petyr!”  

She got to her feet and they stared at each other, both still breathing hard. She was angry, bewildered, but she could feel his anger too. It was coming off him now like a vapour.  

“Why are you pissy with me!” She demanded to know. “I told you, he pulled me and I lost my balance and I fell on him. I don’t want him!” 

“Are you sure.” 

“Yes, I’m bloody sure. But I don’t owe _you_ an explanation!” 

Something changed instantly on his face which made Sansa stop. He looked stricken — more stricken than he ever was after she slapped him. Oh she did not understand him! Or perhaps she did all too well. 

“What I mean is…” she said more gently, "I don’t owe you an explanation. But I came here to give you one anyway. Because it matters to me that you know I don’t feel anything for Harry.” 

He still looked at her strangely, his face inscrutable. But he did not go to her. And more importantly, he did not ask her to explain _why_. Why it mattered so much that she would swallow her pride to stop by his place on her way to the airport just to explain. Why it would eat her alive in some way to leave him thinking that she had somehow hooked up with Harry while at a party that Petyr was hosting. Surely he didn’t think her so callous? Surely he knew better than that? 

“Petyr… come on.” And she didn’t realise there were tears until he walked over and brushed them away from her cheeks. 

Slowly he kissed her, this time cautiously. Tentatively. His movements uncertain, seeking permission. She parted her lips and allowed him in, their tongues meeting each other, this time seeking accord. Their arms wrapped around each other, their embrace sealing the gap between their bodies. He kissed her eyelids, her nose, both corners of the mouth as if in apology. 

Half blindly, as if moving in a dance around his furniture, he led her to the longest couch and she sank into it gratefully. He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers and she traced her handprint on his face, wincing even though he had thoroughly deserved it at the time. He brushed his lips across her fingertips.  

Gradually his mouth travelled down, Sansa leaning her head back and sighing as each kiss, each lick whispered contrition.  

When he finally entered her, she whispered his name — and only his name — over and over and over. He came very quickly after that.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say that Angry Sex and Sorry Sex are quite difficult to write? Phew!


	15. Chapter 15

“I think I’ve missed my flight.” 

He watched as she fumbled around for her phone and flicked on the screen so the clock shone. 

“Yeah... They’re boarding right now.” 

“I’ll drive you.” 

“You don’t have to.” She stared at him, her lips parted in surprise. “It’s a big round trip. Like, seven hours of driving total?” 

“I have a meeting on Tuesday in Canberra anyway,” he half-lied, making a mental note to push his Thursday appointment forward. “I’ll drive you. I’ll drive us.” 

She fell asleep in the car about fifteen minutes from the time they pulled away from the stop-start of traffic and on to the M5. He tried not to drive like a demon. Somehow, the thought of ploughing into the back of a cargo truck seemed suddenly very plausible. The thought of losing not only his life but hers, unthinkable. 

He felt fear and he was afraid. 

Petyr switched the cruise control on and glanced over at Sansa. Her face was relaxed in sleep, lips parted, skin alabaster. She wore no make-up today. He wondered if that said something about her level of comfort with him. He had seen her naked seventeen times, not that he was counting or anything. And yet here, in his car, fully clothed and face nude, her breathing deep and verging on lightly snoring…  

She was the most beautiful, precious thing. His heart squeezed. 

She was the most beautiful, precious thing _he could not control._

And he felt fear and he was afraid. 

_I am going to fuck this up_ , he realised. _This is going to go tits up sooner or later. I am going. to fuck. this up._

* * *

She woke up around four, just after he veered into the slip road to Canberra. They had about an hour of driving left now.

“I don’t feel so good,” she admitted. She started to hunt around for some water. “Maybe I’m dehydrated…” 

“Here,” he handed over his bottle and she took a sip from it gingerly, before she groaned again. 

“Could we pull over?” 

“You’re not going to get sick, are you?” He checked his mirrors and flicked the signal on, and gradually pulled to a stop on a side of gravel. She opened the door and got out slowly. He watched from the car as she paced up and down the gravel strip along the fence line, her hands on her hips, face pale. Cows peering at her in doughy-eyed curiosity now and then.  

Gradually she returned to the car and sat down in her seat, her back to him. Feet planted on the gravel. Head in her hands.  

“You gonna throw up?” But she shook her head. 

“I feel off, but not like throwing up, no.” 

“Don’t tell me you get  _carsick._ You baby.” 

She rolled her eyes then. At least she still had her humour. 

“I don’t get sick when _I_ drive,” she pointed out archly. “Maybe it’s just the way _you_ drive.” 

“I drive fine,” he grinned. “You’re just soft. Wuss.” But he rubbed her back as she groaned, a little concerned.  

* * *

She still wasn’t feeling much better in her own apartment.

“Maybe it’s salmonella,” she finally offered as an explanation. The thought had crossed his mind ages ago, but he didn’t want her to feel anxious or guilty. 

“If it’s salmonella, is it catching?” she asked.  

“According to Dr Google, it’s highly contagious,” he replied. “And if three-quarters of your office got wiped out by it, chances are you’ve got it too.” 

She looked slightly stricken then. “What about you,” she asked, frowning slightly. “We’ve just been swopping saliva.” 

“Oh sweetling,” he replied with a smirk. “We’ve been swopping a lot more than that.” 

He saw her squirm slightly in embarrassment then and wanted to laugh. Seventeen times he had seen her naked, and she could still blush around him. Gods, he could jump her right now even though she looked as sick as a dog. Not that he would, of course. 

He drew the curtains in her bedroom. The summer days in Canberra were long and sunny, even at six in the evening. She had been sitting upright on her bed before slumping onto her pillows, her feet still planted on the floor. He lifted her legs gently up on the bed before removing her shoes, and she curled into herself a little like a kitten or a sad, sick prawn. He set the air-conditioner on low, and then sank into the bed beside her, stroking her hair away from her face. 

“Poor carsick baby,” he murmured teasingly, but he bent down to kiss her temple. “Rest here. I’ll make dinner.” 

“Don’t cook,” she protested. “Just order something up from downstairs.” 

“Too much oil,” he replied. “The last thing you need when you're queasy. Go and rest,” he insisted. “I can figure something out.” 

He sat there and waited pointedly until she closed her eyes and huffed in annoyance. He grinned, even though she couldn’t see it. 

* * *

There was nothing in her fridge. It was appalling. Wine and cheese. That was seriously it. And fucking I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-butter. 

She didn’t hear him when he slipped out with her apartment keys, nor when he returned with bags of groceries and a new set of knives. He didn’t trust her knives. Never trust the knives of a person who only has wine and cheese and _faux_ butter in the fridge. 

Dinner was almost ready when she came into the kitchen, hair kinked and messy but face looking markedly cheered and not green. “That smells _amazing_ ,” she pronounced happily, and proceeded to help herself to a taste. 

“It’s just a chicken soup, cooked Chinese style. Plenty of ginger, and some mung bean noodles.” 

“You can _cook!_ ” she beamed happily. “You have skills. I should keep you.” 

The knife almost slipped then, but he simply emptied the last of the _choy sum_ in the pot as if he did not hear her. 

She looked decidedly better. Her colour had returned and with it, her humour and a surprising happy stream of chatter. So not salmonella then, they deduced. The nap had done her a world of good. He was glad whatever she had was only fleeting. 

“My theory still stands, then. Carsickness.” 

“Pooh,” she returned. “Better not be. I have a long trip ahead in Perth.” 

“Oh?” 

“Christmas at the Starks. Going back to Winterfell, which is the most ironic name you can give to a homestead in Western Australia. I think it was more wishful thinking than anything. Or sarcasm.” 

“When are you going?” 

“This Friday. And then I have the week between Christmas and New Year off for free. I return on the evening of New Year’s day.” 

“Oh?” He had nothing else to say to that, even as he felt a twinge of something. Disappointment, perhaps. But he had never brought up Christmas plans because he usually didn’t have any. And she obviously had a whole routine going he had no business messing around with. 

“How about you?” she asked, her tone slightly cautious. 

He shrugged. “I don’t do Christmas.” 

“Bah, humbug.” 

He smiled but didn’t correct her. “It’s a big deal when you have a big family. I don’t have a big family.” 

“Well, then…” she looked down at her bowl, suddenly fascinated with the print. “You could always come with me.” 

She looked up at him then and he met her gaze. The mix of emotions in her eyes mirrored those in his chest. Her uncertainty was both reassuring and disturbing to him. He cocked an eyebrow at her. 

“Do you really think you’re ready to rock up to the family Christmas with… me. To then explain to your sisters, your brothers, your father, your _mother_ whatever it is that’s going on between us?” 

The silence from her spoke volumes. 

“I didn’t think so,” he surmised drily, unsurprised. That it stung anyway was the more surprising thing. 

“It was just an idea,” she mumbled. 

“It was kind of you.” 

“I didn’t do it just for you,” she smiled ruefully. “I think I might miss you.” 

He smiled at her then. He allowed himself to smile at her then. 

“Twelve days is a long time,” he agreed. “But we’ve had longer times apart.” 

“That was a while ago.” 

She was right. That must have been a long time ago, because he can no longer remember the last time they had spent more than a week apart. He had hankered for her like a child outside a lolly shop, like an addict yearning for his next hit — only each indulgence merely perpetuated the want, the dependence, the need.   

“I’d better call it a night,” he said at length. “Go find a service apartment.” 

“Forget it. It’s late. Your things are here. Just stay, Petyr.” 

How could he say no to that. How could he, when every traitorous cell in his body — except those in his heart — was inclined to stay anyway. 

* * *

They took turns using the sink, and he watched her moisturise her neck, her face as the electric toothbrush whirred in his mouth. Her fingers were long and delicate on her skin, the movements practised and methodical, almost meditative. She started to brush her long hair and he found he couldn’t resist, so he took the brush from her hand wordlessly, sitting her down in front of her dressing table. And she watched him in the mirror as he brushed her hair, long and slow, working each knot out studiously, careful not to pull too hard. 

He watched in utter fascination as she slipped in her diaphragm. How she folded it in half and tucked it inside her eventually, her fingers disappearing inside her. It wasn’t the easiest thing to put on, he now realised. It had sprung from her fingers a couple of times and by the fourth go, she was giggling helplessly as they both scrambled to find it.  

It should have been a mood killer right there. But it wasn’t.   

He had not quite known what to wear. In summer, he was quite likely to kick off his kit and bury himself under the covers. But getting into bed completely starkers right now just seemed presumptuous. She, in turn, seemed to have a similar quandary, staring at her sleepwear as if deciding between functional and flirtatious. She caught him watching her and she laughed a little, self-conscious. He pulled a silk pair of drawstring pants on before leaning against the doorway of her walk-in robe. 

“This one,” he pointed, fishing out a black slip. She rolled her eyes and he grinned, completely unrepentant. He watched as she slipped it on, a strip-tease in reverse. 

“Which side of the bed do you sleep on?” she asked. “I don’t actually know.” 

“I don’t care. Pick your side and I’ll adjust. It’s your bed.” 

She looked a little sheepish then. “I sleep right in the middle.” 

“Me too,” he admitted. Long gone were the days when he had to share a bed. But now he was faced with this very question. 

In the end she moved to the left which was next to the windows, and he took the right, facing the door. They ended up in the middle of the bed anyway, the curve of her back against his chest, his leg over hers, his face in her neck. In the end, all that to-do about sleepwear lay wasted in a casual heap beside her bed. It had happened in a matter of minutes, if that. His hand had wandered underneath her slip and the moment he kneaded her breast, they were gone. Up slipped the slip and down went his pants, her hands diving between her legs to wrap warm and sure around his length. Her sex was already wet and waiting for him, which was always such a compliment, such a turn-on. They played for a little while, him still behind her, spooning her; him gliding the length of his cock along the wet seam of her entrance, teasing her little clit while he cupped a breast possessively. Her arm reached back and she trailed her fingernails along his thighs, his ass, skirting even the pucker they never talked about.  

When he entered her from behind, so slowly, so shallowly, she turned her head so she could look him in the eyes. He stared back at her, memorising her face, his heart almost bursting. Ensorcelled. Terrified.  

“Whatever it is that’s going on between us?” she echoed himself back at him. “Grown-ups call it Being In a Relationship.” She lifted her leg slightly, shifted her hips and suddenly he sank right inside her.  

“You’ve got me now,” she whispered, and then ground herself into him. They shifted, adjusting to their position until they found a rhythm that worked. And then they were moving in beautiful tandem, each separately seeking their own release while looking to pleasure the other.  

She had grown so familiar to him, he marvelled. He knew the significance of each hitch of her breath, her sighs, her cries. He loved that she no longer hid her sounds from him. Every moan was full bodied and sensuous, which only prompted his own groans and carnal utterances. When she started to crest, his hand instantly went down to her sex only to find her hand already there, rubbing herself in a frenzy. His hand went over hers, fingers interlacing as together they worked her clit while he moved within her from behind. Somehow the feel of his knuckles on her cunt sent a fresh wave of desire and she pressed his knuckles into her hard, crying out towards the window as he pounded into her from behind, the bed groaning from their exertions, from the rocking side to side.  

He came first this time. He couldn’t help it. He spilled into her, groaning into her back. And then he fingered her mercilessly from behind until she came, her nails clawing into the pillows as her body curled in like a mimosa and shuddered. 

And then the great calm. The heaviness that fell like a dark, thick blanket after a hard, proper shag. He closed his eyes, his arms tight around her waist, his cock finally limp and sated. 

“Oh you,” he murmured reverently into her hair. 

“I love you too,” she whispered just before sleep robbed his senses.  

* * *

He woke with a start, her words coming back to him immediately.

His heartbeat ratchet up. It thundered in his ears. 

She had rolled away from him slightly in the middle of the night. Their feet were still lightly touching, but it was easy enough for him to ease himself off towards the right of the bed. He found his phone. Five A.M.  

He flicked through his emails. There was a situation developing in Hong Kong. He switched to the news and winced slightly. His client was going to need PR and fast, whether the bullheaded geezer wanted it or not. 

Thank gods. 

He found his silk sleep pants, and chucked them into his bag. His suit was a little creased, but it would have to do.  

He slipped into the bathroom soundlessly. When he stepped out, fully clothed, he found her awake and blinking at him in the semi-darkness. Dawn had started to break already, the glow seeping into her bedroom. 

“A situation in Hong Kong just developed,” he explained. “Shit about to hit the fan for a client. I’m sorry, sweetling, but I have to run.” He kissed her goodbye on her forehead. 

“Will I see you before I leave for Perth?” 

He smiled down at her apologetically. “I don’t think so. Most likely not. But I’ll call.” 

He thought he saw her raise an eyebrow at that, but she didn’t say anything until he was in the doorway of her bedroom. She still had not gotten out of bed, but her quiet voice rang clear in the dead space. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know. Run.” 

“I’m not running, I promise.” And he smiled at her. 

He didn’t know if she bought it, but she let him go anyway. 


	16. Chapter 16

She felt sick on the plane. She never ever felt sick when she travelled by air, but this evening was especially horrid; the cabin air was thin, the air-conditioning felt dead, and it was a packed flight because everyone was rushing home for Christmas. The man beside her was spilling over his seat and smelled like he had travelled all day. He was already taking up both arm rests while he slept open-mouth.  

By the time they started to taxi, Sansa felt desperately like bolting from the aircraft. The breezy humour of the inflight staff, usually a small perk for her on domestic flights, was already grating on her nerves.  

“This is your Captain speaking. Welcome on board Virgin Blue flight 449 to _Darwin_ … just kidding…” A titter of laughs scattered across the plane as Sansa blanched. “In a few minutes, we’ll be pulling out and heading over to beautiful Perth. I’d like to introduce you to our lovely crew this evening. We’ve got Mandy in the front… Candy in the middle… Sandy at the back… and I’m randy.” 

More chuckles. Her neighbour jerked, and then snored. It was going to be a bloody long flight. 

* * *

Her father was there at the airport to meet her, a sight for sore eyes, sore neck, sore back. Father and first daughter hugged tight and kissed. 

“Your mother sends her apologies, but she’s been cooking all day today. She started yesterday.” But Sansa only shook her head, heartily thankful. At least she would have the car ride to unwind in relative silence without undergoing the third degree.  

The trip from Perth airport to Mandurah was just under an hour, and in that time Sansa felt herself relax enough to ask what was going on. 

“Bran and Rickon came with us earlier in the week, of course. Robb and Talisa are on their way, and Arya is coming.” Sansa could hear the joy in his voice at the last. He missed his firebrand daughter, even if he never said it. 

“Looks like a full house this Christmas,” Ned volunteered. “More so than previous years. Jon got leave from Afghanistan and he’s here already. And…” he added gruffly, “he’s brought a girl with him.” 

“ _Jon?_ ” Sansa was so surprised, she laughed. In all the years growing up with him, she had never seen him with a girl even though there were many dying to catch his eye and hold his nice strong hand. He was just always so serious, so moody. 

“What’s she like?” Sansa wondered aloud. 

“Oh you’ll see,” Ned replied cryptically. “She’s not like Jon, that’s for sure.” 

_Huh._

They spent the rest of the car ride in silence, Sansa soaking in the different, brighter greens this side of the world, her heart lifting as the road started hugging the cliff and all she could see was the endless blue of the Indian Ocean. She missed this. She missed the openness, how azure met emerald met ultramarine. Landlocked Canberra had its bushland and its lakes, but out here in Western Australia, they had infinity at their doorstep.  

Mandurah was home to many of Australia’s monster mansions and it was only in this neighbourhood that Winterfell could be judged as cozy. Sansa, like most of her other siblings, had grown up in this homestead, but ever since all of them relocated East and around the globe, they had done the place up as an exclusive cliffside retreat and rented it out to discerning guests, wedding parties, and expensive corporate clients all year round. It was only at Christmas time that the Starks reclaimed Winterfell for themselves. Even then, the place had long since lost its original soul, having been completely redone with the latest mod cons and emptied of its owners’ personal effects in order to cater to its clientele. 

Still, it wasn’t a shabby place to spend a chunk of time in. Five bedrooms wrapped around a beautiful glass-roofed atrium in the centre, along with a commercial kitchen; a more modest kitchen and meals area; an expansive dining room that could comfortably seat twenty; a lounge; a boardroom; and a theatre. There was even a formal sitting room originally built for the womenfolk back in the day. It was next to the indoor swimming pool, spa and sauna, the other side of which led across the green with the children’s playground to the other three bedrooms in a separate wing. It too was kitted out with its own kitchen, sitting room, and a gym. The servants’ quarters and sports lockers along with the eight-car garage lined the back of the property. There were eleven bathrooms in total, so no one ever had far to run after too much turkey. And each bedroom was palatial, either furnished with a king-sized bed or two king-singles. 

It had all been stone and brick walls when Sansa grew up in Winterfell, but an expensive designer with flouncy sleeves and a fashionable lisp had gone through the place and now walls were mostly triple-glazed glass that stretched endlessly, affording everyone a magnificent view of the majestic ocean and precious little personal privacy.  

Just the way Catelyn Stark liked it. 

 

5:46pm  
SANSA STARK  
I’m here. Wish me luck 

 

5:59pm  
PETYR BAELISH  
Glad you’re safe, sweetling. Luck. 

 

* * *

Bran and Rickon were already in the tennis court; Sansa could hear the pop of balls as rackets found their marks, intermingled with laughter and good-natured ribbing.

“How was your flight, darling?” And Mother and Daughter kissed cheek to cheek.   

“It was good,” Sansa lied. “Where am I sleeping?” 

“How about in the other wing. Facing the gym?” 

“You mean the old granny flat? Where you and dad's bedroom used to be?” 

“The biggest room in that one, yes.” 

It was a good option, actually. As much as Sansa enjoyed her siblings, she needed a break from them after the alcohol entered the room. She and Jon were often one of the first to make their apologies amidst a storm of boos from the rest of the family as they retired for the night. 

“I hear Jon is here!” 

Catelyn’s lips thinned a fraction, mostly out of habit. 

“He’s in the theatre room.” A pause. "With Ygritte.” 

Ygritte, as her father had promised earlier, was nothing like Jon. 

She was energy barely encased in a thin, lissome body, red flaming hair like Sansa’s, yet shorter, almost alive, untamed. She was pretty enough, with a small impertinent nose sprinkled generously with freckles that Sansa could make out even from here. Her eyes were small and sharp, crackling with intelligence. Her voice was low, almost hoarse. Sansa stood in the doorway watching them before they noticed her at all. She watched as Ygritte teased her half-brother, calling him a Pretty Boy and threatening to pull his hand to cup her small high breast, the threadbare material of her dress-shirt revealing all too clearly how she was braless and free. A thin ribbon cinched her tiny waist, a make-shift belt that looked like an afterthought she had found in the back of her car. Sansa looked at how her half-brother was laughing and staring into the eyes of this hurricane, this wildling, this fierce, free creature. Totally and utterly besotted. 

Sansa felt a pang of jealousy, that this wonderful creature should be here with him. That Jon was not alone and yet she was. Petyrless. 

“Sansa!” he smiled when he finally looked away and noticed her. The two siblings hugged and meant it. Long ago, Sansa had learnt to copy her mother and had treated this half-brother abominably, acting out her mother’s own misdirected insecurities and jealousy. That was ancient history now. Everyone had grown and changed. And Jon had grown to become a lot more like their father than even Robb. How could a sister not love that? 

“This is Ygritte.” 

Ygritte stuck out her hand and Sansa took it, their handshake firm and vigorous. 

“Nice to meet-cha,” she sniffed and smiled. It was then Sansa realised she was older than she first appeared. 

“Lovely to meet you.” Sansa infused her smile with all the warmth she felt. She wanted Ygritte to know she was firmly on their side. 

Because lords know what their mother thought of this. 

“When did you come back?” she asked Jon. 

“Just yesterday.” 

“And you came straight here?” 

“Almost. Had to pick this one up.” And he bent and kissed Ygritte deeply before pulling back with a huge grin on his face. Sansa was fascinated. She had never seen uptight, mournful Jon kiss anyone before, much less in front of his little sister and with a hint of tongue. 

_Whoa._

“How did you meet?” 

“In Afghanistan. She’s an aid worker with the Red Cross. And the bravest woman I know. Not long after that last bomb went off in the trauma unit in Kunduz, I saw her tackle a gunman to the ground and beat him to a pulp when he pulled a pistol out in her ward. This woman, taking on this huge bear with no fear for her life, only thinking of everyone else.” 

Ygritte snorted. “How many people you goin’ to tell that story to? Yer gettin’ mushy, Pretty Boy, you know?” But her eyes softened and Sansa realised then that she loved him too. 

They eventually made their way out of the theatre room, Sansa moving towards the kitchen to offer her services, even though she was sure to be rebuffed. Catelyn had always kept her out of the kitchen so she could not “mess up”; it was partly why she absolutely sucked at cooking herself, even though her mother excelled in it. The only people ever allowed in that kitchen were the Help, and Catelyn had run through her fair share of those before settling on the ones she trusted now. 

True enough, Catelyn assured her daughter that she had a handle on things. “Go catch up with your brothers. Robb should be here soon.” And then as if on cue, the doorbell chimed and Sansa ran to answer the door. 

Sansa had only met Talisa a few times, including at their wedding which had been a simple, heartfelt affair marred only by the clear unhappiness from Sansa’s side of the family. Robb had migrated shortly after to Indonesia, the final snub to the sustained campaign against their marriage from Ned and Catelyn. Their parents had been true to their word and cut Robb off as soon as their plane left the tarmac. And so instead of gaining a daughter, they lost — for a good while — their son. 

But Robb was still a filial child, and Talisa — Sansa suspected — helped to turn him around. And so now they were here, their second Christmas together with the rest of the family. Sansa smiled and kissed her sister-in-law, and noticed how pale and wan she looked. 

“Are you alright?” 

“It’s been a long trip,” she apologised. Robb gave Sansa a bear hug before leading his wife to their room.   

 

6:17pm  
MARGE  
How goes things? 

 

6:17pm  
SANS  
Everyone trickling in. Dad’s hiding. Mum’s stressing  
in the kitchen. Robb and Talisa just arrived.   
Jon brought home a GIRL! 

 

6:18pm  
MARGE  
OMG! Is she Goth? Is she a librarian? What?! 

 

6:20pm  
SANS  
NO! She’s… I can’t describe her. She’s nothing like Jon.  
She’s like a wild cat. Or something.   
And he’s totally smitten. 

 

6:21pm  
MARGE  
Fuck! PICCIES! Or better yet, video.   
I have to see this for myself. 

 

6:22pm  
SANS  
I’ll try, but it’s not like I can take a vid without  
them knowing. Unless when they’re sucking face,  
perhaps. Which happens often! :-O 

 

6:21pm  
MARGE  
Where’s Elvis? 

 

6:22pm  
SANS  
Not here. :-( 

 

6:23pm  
MARGE  
Why the fuck not? 

 

* * *

Arya swanned in late, just when everyone was picking a seat at the table and their mother was carrying the dishes out from the kitchen. 

“Hello, room,” she grinned, and then reached around the corner and pulled a man into the light. 

“This is Gendry.” 

“Hello Gendry,” everyone chorused, highly amused. Arya’s sexuality was something they had always wondered about, just never out loud or she would thump them. Or slice their necks in their sleep. Or break raw eggs into their shoes. Russian roulette, really. 

“Where’s our room?” 

And Catelyn almost dropped the ham before she stared, jaw slack, at Arya. 

“What do you mean, ‘ _our_ room’!” 

“Our bedroom. We need to put our backpacks down. They're heavy.” 

“You are NOT sharing a room with your friend.” 

“Why the hell not!” Arya cried, indignant. She pointed at Robb. “ _They’re_ sharing.” 

“They’re married!” 

“Oh right. How about them?” And she pointed to Jon and Ygritte. “I’ll bet _they’re_ sharing.” 

Catelyn looked across at Jon, and everyone knew the moment she realised her oversight. Her lips thinned. 

“No they’re not.” 

“Aw, Mum…!” 

“Don’t 'Aw Mum' me, Jon” replied Catelyn sharply. “You know the house rules. You’re not sharing a bed with someone of the opposite sex unless you’re married. It’s unseemly!” 

“Mum, you know I’m fucking Gendry, right?” 

Sansa spat her prawn out and started coughing violently. Robb stuffed his fist in his mouth and tried not to laugh. Talisa bowed her head demurely. Ned looked slightly sick. 

Gendry, bless him, looked mildly mortified yet mildly pleased.  

“Arya Stark!” 

“And they’re probably fucking too!” She pointed at Jon, looking aggrieved. Indignant. “Tell her you’re fucking! Please? Back me up here!" 

“You are NOT sharing a bed!” Catelyn turned to Jon. “Neither are you two! Not under our roof, not while you are here! It’s Christmas! NED! SAY SOMETHING!"  

"Listen to your mother, kids. Just... listen to your mother."  

Rickon's jaw was now hanging, barely grazing the table. Fourteen-year-old Bran was, as usual, more circumspect. Creepily Zen, almost.  

"Relax, Rick," he murmured sagely. "It's just sex. It's not like Jon and Ygritte are trying to kill each other or something."  

“Well, then? "Arya snapped. "What are you going to do? Everyone’s got their rooms now. Gendry going to sleep in the small eighth bedroom?” 

“No… he can’t… let me think of something.” Catelyn’s mind whirred, her eyes darting across to all her children and their partners, doing the math. 

“Ygritte, you will share a room with Sansa.” 

“Mum!” Sansa looked up, annoyed. “You’re not making me share my bed with a stranger, are you? No offence, Ygritte. I’m sure you’re lovely, but I need my space.” 

“Well, then Ygritte can share a room with Arya. Her room has two King Singles.” 

“I’m not sharing a room with anybody except Gendry!” 

“Then,” Catelyn sighed tiredly, “Sansa, you swap rooms with Arya so you have a bed to yourself and Ygritte has her own. And Arya gets the King bed.” 

Instant pandemonium. 

“Why do _I_ have to give up my bed!”  

“Did you hear that, Gendry? WE’RE GETTING A KING BED!”  

“You are NOT sleeping with Gendry, Arya Stark, so help me gods!”  

“It’s always the same. Arya kicks up dirt and I end up with the dirty laundry!” 

“Stop being so dramatic, Sansa! ENOUGH! It is done. Make the swop.” 

Sulky silence. And then, 

“Where is Gendry going to sleep?” 

Catelyn groaned. 

“Gendry, you can share the room with Jon.” 

“Uh uh,” piped up Jon. “I have a King bed. I’m not sharing a bed with a bloke!” 

“Why not!” asked Catelyn, exasperated.  

To which all her children chorused, “Because it is unseemly!” 

“Right!” yelled Catelyn. She pointed at Jon and Gendry. “The eighth bedroom has two King Singles. BOTH of you will share that room.” 

“I don’t get it, Ma! Just let Gendry take the spare room and be done with it.” 

“The spare room stays empty!” thundered Catelyn, and that was that.  

“Don’t worry,” Arya stage-whispered across to Ygritte. “We’ll all swap back later anyway.” 

Ygritte grinned. Arya grinned. Soul sisters. 

* * *

7:47pm  
SANS  
Now Arya’s brought home a boy. 

 

8:02pm   
MARGE  
OMFG 

 

8:02pm   
MARGE  
I thought she was gay! 

 

8:04pm   
SANS  
Even I thought she was gay! 

 

8:05pm   
MARGE  
What’s he like? 

 

8:17pm   
SANS  
Kinda nice, actually. Quiet. Ripped body, I suspect. Tradesman. Welder. My mother is not pleased. 

 

8:21pm   
MARGE  
LMAO! I’ll bet. Little Arya Stark. Well done, girl. 

 

8:22pm   
SANS  
Never thought I’d be the only one here without a date. I’m the spinster! 

 

8:25pm   
MARGE  
You are fucking not the spinster.   
Why didn’t you bring Elvis? 

 

8:30pm   
SANS  
Things got awkward before I left for Winterfell. 

 

8:30pm   
MARGE  
What happened? 

 

8:37pm   
SANS  
Petyr being a manchild happened.  
And then I chickened. I think I hurt his feelings. 

 

* * *

A tinkle as silver met glass. Robb actually calling everyone’s attention. The last time he did that, he announced he was in love and turning Muslim.

“Thank you for a wonderful meal, Ma!” And Sansa grimaced slightly, seeing how the centrepiece of the dinner had been a humongous leg of ham. But Talisa, bless her heart, had been very good about it.  

“I’m so glad Talisa and I have been able to spend the last few Christmases with you. It’s made me realise how important all of you are, how important family is.” 

He looked down at his wife with pride and love, unvarnished, unspoken, untainted. 

“Talisa and I are expecting a baby in June.” 

“Oh my gods.” Catelyn dropped her napkin. 

“I’m so happy for you!” squealed Sansa, standing up to move to her sister-in-law. They hugged, their eyes shining.  

"So happy for you, son." Ned's voice was quiet but he was clearly chuffed.  

“I’m gonna be an aunt!” crowed Arya. She looked across at Sansa. "Just so you know, I'm going to be the Cool Aunt. You'll be Oh Gods Prissy Auntie Sansa Is Looking At Me."  

"Oh shut up!" But Sansa grinned. She caught a subtle movement. Jon, looking deep into Ygritte's eyes, his thumb rubbing her hand under the table. Over her bare ring finger.  

Then she glanced at her mother, who looked — for once — at a loss for words. She was going to be a grandmother for the first time. It should fill her with the utmost joy, and yet… 

She glanced at Talisa. She was staring at Catelyn too. And then Sansa understood. 

The baby would be Muslim. And her mother was conflicted. It wasn’t enough that there was going to be a grandchild. It had to be the right kind of grandchild. 

Sansa reached over and gripped Talisa’s hand. She squeezed back, her lips forming a watery smile as a hand reached instinctively to cradle her flat belly. 

* * *

The alcohol was definitely in the room.

It was a Stark tradition to open their presents on Christmas eve. It all started with Arya, who used to sneak in after midnight and tear open everything and everyone’s. After a while, they all just gave up and started exchanging gifts when the clock struck midnight. 

There were Christmas wrappers everywhere, and Arya was making up dirty Christmas carols that surprisingly rhymed well. Ygritte, as it turned out, had a beautiful jazz voice and an equally smutty mouth.   

The three men—Jon, Gendry, and Robb— were slouched in the same sofa, contented to gaze at their partners in a haze of inebriated adoration. 

Sansa’s parents had long left the room, herding a reluctant Bran and Rickon, bidding everyone goodnight. Her mother had looked bone tired. She had really gone all out for dinner and dessert tonight, and there was lunch again tomorrow. 

In her own fierce, funny way, their mother loved them all deeply and would move mountains. Sansa understood that, at least.  

She drank up the last of her mulled wine. She hated every other version, but she had to admit that her mother made the best mulled wine. Not too sickly, not too sweet, not too spiced.  

“How do you feel?” she asked Talisa. “Are you excited?” 

Tailsa nodded, her hand on her belly again. “Yes, we are.” 

“Found names yet?”  

“Not yet… and we haven’t decided on… religion yet, either.” 

Sansa sat up straighter. “I thought it was automatic. The child is born into your faith.” 

“But Robb is not Muslim, not really. His heart is here with his family. He thinks differently still. The child is born Muslim, but the upbringing may be different...” 

“It will go against everything you believe in!” Sansa wasn’t very religious, but she knew this much.  

“Robb loves his mother,” Talisa answered quietly. “And honouring our parents is part of my faith too. It torments my husband, to conflict with his family. I have no easy answers for him, but I want to take away his pain.” 

Sansa had no answers to that, only deep empathy. 

She thought again about Petyr. She couldn’t help it. No matter what was going on, the havoc, the raucousness of her family life, the edges of her mind would creep over to him. She wondered what he was doing. Whether he was alone. Whether he was back in Sydney. She would think so — surely Hong Kong celebrated Christmas enough to understand that employees needed to be with their families? Except where was his family — _who_ was his family? 

She missed him. She missed him like a well-loved tune misses a note, the dissonance jarring to her body, her soul. She felt a gaping hole somewhere inside her and as she looked around at her brothers and sister, so in love, so in love, she knew what would fill her up and she missed him. 

She wondered what it would have been like, if he had come. Her mother would have been ropable, her father disappointed. But then she would have had Arya, and Jon, and Robb. They were in this together. They would have supported her, just the way she supported them. Why hadn’t she considered that, before she squashed the idea so quickly that the light in his eyes died with it? 

His texts had been infrequent and short. And Sansa was not willing to push him, to badger him, to ask. If he wanted to tell her where he was and what he was up to, what he was thinking, he knew the number to call. 

The fact that he didn’t was telling in itself. And each time, Sansa fought hard to push the panic down. 

But it was Christmas Day. And surely a text on Christmas Day was harmless? 

 

12:27am   
SANSA STARK  
Merry Christmas, Petyr. <3 

 

12:33am   
PETYR BAELISH  
xx 

 

* * *

_Arya Stark, would you shutthefuckup._

_I’ve been hanging around Petyr too long._

As if hearing her inner thoughts, the knocking on her door got very insistent. Sansa groaned.  

“I’m up!” she yelled across the room. “Just give me a moment.” 

“Put on a robe!” Arya yelled back. “You’ll thank me for it.” 

_Wha?_

But Sansa complied, fishing her silk Japanese robe from the floor before struggling it on. She snapped the lock to the twelve o’clock position before flinging the door open. 

“This had better be good.” 

“I don’t know about good,” Arya grimaced. “But Harry Hardyng is here.” 

“What!” she barked, and Arya shushed her. 

“Mum invited him. Something about his house burning down in the Blue Mountains.” 

“You are KIDDING me!” 

“What is Mum talking about! And why is he here! I thought he cheated on you and you hate him!” 

“He did and I do, but Mum and Dad are trying to set me up with him again.” 

Arya’s jaw fell open. “You _still_ haven't told them about him cheating on you?” 

“I’ve got bigger issues right now.” 

Sansa stormed past Arya, who immediately ran back to her room to Gendry. She ran across the children’s playground and pushed open the double doors next to the swimming pool before coming face to face with the man himself. 

“What are you doing here!” 

“Sansa! Darling! _I_ invited Harry. You remember how he told us about his great-grandfather’s property burning down in that bushfire? And I thought, since we have room this year, why not get Harry to come along for Christmas lunch?” 

Sansa stared at her mother unhappily. _I know why you’re doing this. You have no right. You’re interfering again._

And her mother stared back coolly. _You will thank me for this someday, when you have beautiful babies with this beautiful man and we give you this homestead in this wonderful neighbourhood with the good schools._

That was when Sansa looked down and her insides went cold. 

“You brought luggage.” 

“Yeah. I’m staying a week.” Harry turned to look at her mother askance, his cheekbones catching the morning light, chiselling his jaw even more. “Mrs Stark, where is my room again?” 

“Bedroom six. Sansa can show you where it is, it’s right next to hers.” 

_OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE._

* * *

7:40am  
SANS   
You will not believe what   
my mother has done now. 

 

7:43am   
MARGE  
It’s fucking 7:45am, Sans! Merry Christmas, btw  

 

7:45am   
SANS  
She invited Harrold Hardyng over for Christmas lunch. He came WITH LUGGAGE. 

 

7:48am   
MARGE  
FUUUUUUUUUCK!   
Does Elvis know? 

 

 

9:00am   
SANSA STARK   
In the interest of full disclosure, this text is to tell  
you that my mother invited Harrold Hardyng to  
Christmas lunch today.  

 

9:00am   
PETYR BAELISH   
Is this normal? 

 

9:01am   
SANSA STARK  
No. 

 

9:10am   
PETYR BAELISH   
Is this where I’m supposed to be concerned? 

 

9:12am   
SANSA STARK  
No. 

 

* * *

Lunch was tense. Lunch was not fun.

Sansa lost her appetite. Arya was shooting daggers at Harrold, and their mother kept kicking her leg and missing when Arya dodged, so she ended up hitting Sansa’s shins instead. 

Their father kept the conversation flowing most of the time, the two men catching up on inter-Ministry gossip and Ned giving Harry some fatherly advice on how to deal with certain personalities. 

Robb looked confused, Jon looked troubled, and neither of their partners understood what the hell was really going on, so they kept their heads down and kept right on eating.  

“That was a gorgeous lunch, Mrs Stark. I've missed your cooking! Shall we go for a walk after this, Sansa? Work it off at the cliffside?” 

“No.” 

Her mother kicked under the table again. This time, Sansa moved and Arya got the hit. 

 

* * *

There was nowhere to go on Christmas Day. It wasn’t like any of the shops were going to be open. Boxing Day Sales were chaos, but Christmas was dead as a doornail, retail-wise. 

Yet the moment she could, Sansa grabbed a set of keys, slid into a car, and pulled out of the driveway. She drove and drove until she reached Cape Leeuwin. The lighthouse wasn’t open, but she stopped anyway and took a walk on the grounds, looking out towards the waters. This was the magical point where two oceans meet, two stubborn bodies of water, with their own currents and patterns and agendas, mingling. She supposed it could be a trite little metaphor for something between Petyr and herself, but mostly she just needed the quiet and the calm. 

She was so very angry with her parents, but most of all her mother. 

 

3:31pm   
MUM  
Where are you?  

 

3:37pm   
MUM  
You’re being very childish and rude.  


You know Harry came all this way just for you.  

 

4:00pm   
MUM  
Dinner’s at 7 sharp. You’d better be there.  

 

And then the clincher. 

 

4:01pm   
MUM  
I’m so disappointed in you.  

 

* * *

Dinner. It was Stark tradition to dress up for the last sit-down family meal of the Christmas season. One year, the boys even rented tails and the girls all had to wear floor-length gowns, including Arya.

Sansa Stark could not be arsed. 

She came out of her room wearing her ripped jeans and a baggy T-shirt, just when Harry came out wearing a pair of fitted pale chinos, a white linen shirt, and a dark blue evening jacket that brought out the piercing aquamarine of his eyes.  

“Sansa, you look…” 

“Save it,” she intoned, before turning on her heel and walking away.  

“Burn!” chortled Arya around the corner, resplendent in a bespoke tuxedo. For once in her life, she was better dressed than her sister.  

* * *

 

6:57pm   
SANS  
BTW, I didn’t tell Petyr that Harry came with luggage. 

 

7:03pm   
MARGE  
Okaaaaay...  
Does Dirty Harry know that YOU now come with luggage? 

 

* * *

Catelyn dragged her older daughter into the kitchen by her elbow. Her eyes were dangerously bright, her lips pressed so thin, they almost disappeared.

Stage whisper. “Sansa, what are you wearing!” 

“Clothes.” 

“Couldn’t you at least try!”  

The reproach, the hurt in Catelyn’s voice made Sansa flinch. Yet the white-hot anger that had been curling in her belly for most of the day only burned brighter. 

“I made it back in time for dinner.” 

“Where were you all afternoon?” 

“Cape Leeuwin.” 

Her mother’s mouth fell open. “That’s almost three hours away! What were you doing there!” 

“What do you think, Ma!” Sansa’s eyes flashed. A mirror of her mother’s. “You ambushed me!” she hissed. "With _Harry_ — and don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” 

“I was just trying to be kind to him! It’s Christmas, and the poor boy… well, you heard the story about the fire! And then we met on the boat, and he was so gallant to you during the fight. How can I not invite him!” 

“Mum!” Sansa fought down the clawing desire to scream. “Can’t you just accept that I don’t want to be with him? Can’t you just respect my personal wishes _for once in your life?_ Can’t you trust me to make good decisions for myself?” 

“Of course I trust you.” 

“No, you really don’t!”  

“I just don’t understand what you have against him. Surely it was so long ago. You were just kids. Why can’t you forgive him?” 

“Because he cheated on me, Ma!”  

The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them. Sansa looked down on the floor just then, stricken. As if the words had puddled on the floor, making a big mess. She had promised herself not to tell. 

“I didn’t know, Sansa.” 

“I _know_ you didn’t know. But you didn’t trust me to know better. You never do.” 

“You should have told me.” 

“Maybe. But then you should have just respected my decision.” 

An impasse. She watched as her mother’s jaw worked, her face conflicted and hurt. 

And then finally, a softening. 

“It’s Christmas, Sansa. Come here. I don’t want to fight you.” Her mother opened her arms and waited. And Sansa, suddenly tired and worn, tamped down her frustration long enough to step into the embrace. 

As her mother’s familiar smell wrapped around her face and brought her right back to earlier, simpler times, she heard her mother’s soothing voice say, “Your father cheated on me and I had Jon to remind me of that every damn day. But I still found a way to forgive him because he loved me. I just don’t want you to walk away from a good thing because of your pride.” 

Sansa pulled away from her mother, then turned and walked out the kitchen. 

* * *

A long moment in her room. A small test.

 

7:22pm   
SANSA STARK  
Turns out Harry is staying for dinner. 

 

7:33pm   
PETYR BAELISH  
Then enjoy your dinner. 

 

_What the hell was that supposed to mean!_

Sansa eyed her dress, then dropped her jeans to the floor. 

* * *

She loved how the fabric swished when she walked, how it floated like air yet skirted her figure, the pale pink accentuating the creaminess of her skin in the ambient light, the soft shoulder straps falling off innocently, tantalisingly as she moved.

He would have peeled it off her body the moment he saw her in it, starting first with her shoulder she was sure. But he wasn’t here, now was he. Callous, callow, maddening man-child. “Then enjoy your dinner.” Indeed. 

The moment she entered the room, there was a strange little hush. Her brothers stared at her in amazement.  

“Fuck me!” Arya blurted. “What the hell happened to you!” 

And Harrold’s eyes were deep, aquamarine blue. They bore into her, ravenous. He pulled out her chair and then stood behind her. They gazed at each other through the feature mirror with its burnt gold frame sitting opposite on the mantelpiece. For a moment, it made quite a picture.  

“You look beautiful, Sansa,” he murmured. “I can’t believe I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.” 

Sansa held up her hand stiffly as Arya made barfing sounds. But she sank into the chair he pulled out for her, meeting her mother’s beam with a cold, blank stare. 

* * *

 

9:22pm   
MARGE  
How was dinner? 

 

9:25pm   
SANS  
I don’t know. 

 

9:25pm   
MARGE  
What do you mean you don’t know? 

 

9:26pm   
SANS  
I mean I don’t know how I feel about dinner. 

 

9:30pm   
SANS  
How is it I feel guilt when I haven’t cheated on Petyr?  
How can I even be cheating on him, if I’m not his? 

 

9:31pm   
MARGE  
WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED. 

 

9:32pm   
SANS  
Nothing. But I wanted a reaction. And then I got one. 

 

* * *

She was hiding in her room. She knew it. She had feigned tiredness, which was not an untruth, after driving six hours. And then she had fled to her room.

She had stirred the pot, she knew. Harry was well and truly intrigued now. Like a puppy just given a vague promise of a treat.  

She was awful to use him. But she had been so angry. She had been vaguely angry the whole day. It was bloody exhausting, frankly. 

She flicked on her phone. 

 

10:02pm   
SANSA STARK  


My problem is that I care too much about what  
my mother thinks. I always have. Can’t help it. 

 

10:05pm   
SANSA STARK  
And then what am I going to do about Harry, after  
dinner tonight?  

 

10:06pm   
SANSA STARK  
And then Petyr. Should I tell him that Harry   
is staying over? He doesn’t know. 

 

10:07pm   
SANSA STARK  
I was going to tell him, but then I didn’t.  
He’s behaving like such a child right now. 

 

10:08pm   
SANSA STARK  
Harry’s in the next room, by the way.   
What if he tries something tonight? 

 

She locked her phone after waiting for a few minutes. Margaery was probably brushing her teeth. It was Boxing Day Sales tomorrow. She always got in super early, which meant an early night’s sleep usually.  

She gave her ten more minutes as she got ready for bed herself, and then flicked her phone on. 

 

10:20pm   
SANS  
Hello? I’m dying here. What do you think? 

 

10:21pm   
MARGE  
About what? 

 

10:21pm  


SANS  
About telling Petyr about Harry. 

 

10:21pm   
MARGE  
Huh? 

 

10:22pm   
SANS  
I just texted you to ask whether I should tell P… 

 

And then Sansa’s insides turned to ice. _Oh shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit…_

She scrolled through her messages to Margaery. All of it, the texts about the dinner, Harry staying the week, Petyr not knowing, _all of it wasn’t there._

She flicked over to the dashboard view of her message inbox. Just when a new text pinged at the top of the screen. 

 

10:25pm   
PETYR BAELISH  
So I’m a child, am I? 

 

Cold swept through her body and over her as she flicked through Petyr's messages. And sure enough, they were all there. 

_No. No no no no no..._

Somehow, she managed to get her trembling hands to start dialling his number. She fumbled twice, the touchscreen suddenly dulled to her desperate jabbing, time slipping away between her fingers. His line was engaged. She tried again, the touchscreen still numb to her touch. Engaged. She cursed, then jumped when the phone rang instead, damn well nearly causing her to drop it. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello, Sweetling.” 

“Petyr!” 

But there was a knock on the door.  

“Go away!” she called out, “I’m on the phone!” 

“What?” returned a muffled voice that Sansa recognised, with a sinking heart, could only belong to Harry. 

“Petyr, I’m so sorry, I —“ 

Another three knocks. “Sansa?” 

“It was only meant for Margaery, and I —“ 

“Sansa? Are you okay?" 

She rolled her eyes skyward and tried to breathe. “Petyr, could you please hold the line, just for a moment? Please don’t go anywhere…” 

She held her phone to her chest, took a quick breath, and then flung open the door. 

“I’m on the phone, Harry.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry. I can come back.” 

“Please don’t. Not to my room.” 

“I just… we need to talk.” 

“There is nothing to say.” 

“I just thought… after that dinner, and the way you looked tonight…” 

“I’m sorry about dinner. I shouldn’t have led you on like that —“ 

“You looked so beautiful.” 

“Stop saying that!" 

“But I can’t. Sansa, I love you! Why won’t you believe me? Why won’t you give me a second chance? Because I know you can feel something for me. It’s in there somewhere.” 

And before she could stop him, he pulled her close, his mouth descending on hers sweet and soft and insistent. And utterly foreign. 

One full second before her mind caught on and she pushed him back, hard. 

“What do you think you’re doing!” 

“I just want you to remember us!” 

“You need to return to your room, Harry. And you need to stay there.” 

“I’ll be here all week. I’ll wait for you.” 

“Then I’m leaving.” 

She pushed him out the doorway then, before kicking the door shut behind him. Her heart was pounding hard in her ears, her chest heaving as the enormity of what just happened hit her. 

And then she remembered her phone. 

“Petyr?” 

But the line was dead. 

She called him back and went straight to voicemail. The room was starting to spin slightly. She threw her phone on the bed, then pulled out her suitcase and started throwing things in. 

What was the time? Eleven at night. And an hour’s drive to Perth. On Christmas night. No cab would come near them, surely. She stepped out into the corridor, wandered round and spied Jon and Ygritte’s bedroom before she heard a door open around the corner behind her. 

“Looking for a lift?” 

“Arya? 

“Me and Gendry are going to Fremantle. We can drop you at the airport.” 

“You heard us?” 

“The further the fuck you get from Blondie there, the better.” 

 “I should tell Mum,” Sansa replied, dread flooding her chest. 

“Don’t be daft. Then you’ll never get to leave. It’ll be like that time they placed me on house arrest. No, just go. We’ll be fine. We’ll tell them tomorrow you had to go.” 

Jon’s door opened just then, and Ygritte and Jon stepped out. 

“What’s this?” 

“Jail break. Except this time it’s Sansa making a dash for things.” 

“I have to go, Jon…” The tears were starting to pool and Sansa blinked them away. 

“Oh shit!” Arya breathed. “What the hell did he do to you!” 

“It’s not him!” Sansa cried softly. “I made a mess. I have to fix things.” 

“With Harry?” Jon asked confused. 

“What’s going on here?” Robb’s voice piped up, and everyone else hushed him immediately. Talisa was standing behind her husband, her hand on the small of his back, eyes wide with concern. 

“Okay people,” Arya commanded in a low, fierce whisper. “It’s getting crowded in here. Mum and Dad are just there. Everyone quietly to the garage!” 

Softly, all seven of them padded through the long corridor past the atrium, past the indoor swimming pool that Sansa never got to use this trip, until they were all safely in the garage. 

Robb started first. “Okay, someone tell me what’s going on?”  

“I have to go.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“I don’t know! I’m thinking Canberra. But maybe Sydney.” 

“You’re not making much sense, Sans!” Jon’s thick eyebrows were starting to meet in the middle. 

“She’s running away from Harrold,” Arya volunteered. 

“But you said something about fixing things.” 

“There’s a boy,” Sansa sighed. “A man. Well, a boy really. And I think I just fucked it up!” 

There was a collective step backwards at the first real expletive any of them had ever heard fall from their prim sister’s lips.  

“You said Fuck!” Awe from Arya.  

Sansa wanted to laugh. Oh, if only they knew. If only they _knew_. 

“What’s his name?” Jon asked. 

“Petyr. But you mustn’t tell Mum and Dad. They’ll kill me!” 

“They know him?” 

“Yes. It’s complicated.” 

“Sounds it,” murmured Ygritte. 

“Is he worth it, Sansa?” asked Talisa softly. 

She looked at her sister-in-law with a small goofy smile on her lips. “I think so,” she replied. “He’s been acting like a fucking idiot all week. But I think I love him.” 

“Okay, you have to stop saying Fuck!” complained Arya. "You’re freaking me out!" 

“I need to go.” 

“Go, go!” Everyone agreed.  

“Goodbye, Jon!” She hugged her brother tight. “I pray for you all the time, it’s the only kind of prayer I do, really. It was so lovely meeting you, Ygritte!” And she hugged her small, wiry frame before whispering in her ear, “He proposed, didn’t he. You just didn’t want to take away from the baby news.” The two women shared a secret grin, Ygritte gruffly touched. 

“Big brother,” she hugged Robb. And then turned to Talisa. “I hope baby starts letting you feel better real soon!” 

“It’s not so bad,” Talisa laughed, rubbing her belly again. “I only start to feel queasy in the evenings. Around five o’clock, like clockwork. Goes away after two hours, usually.” 

* * *

Miracle of miracles, she caught a plane. There were none to Sydney, but one to Canberra after a short transit in Melbourne. Sansa took it, barely looking at the bill as she pressed her credit card over the machine. 

It was just as well she had to land in Canberra first. Sydney was starting to feel like an important but secondary priority. 

She stopped at the chemist just below her apartment, thanking the gods that it opened from seven in the morning on a public holiday. What a public service! Then as soon as she reached her apartment door and twisted the lock open, she pulled her suitcase next to the shoe rack before moving swiftly to the bathroom. 

She had never done this before, but the instructions were pretty straightforward. There were only so many ways this could work, after all. 

When the line turned blue, she felt her face turn green. 

* * *

_Pick up your phone… pick up your phone, Marge… come on..._

No one was picking up their phones this morning. Petyr’s phone was still going straight to voicemail. And Marge’s was ringing out. 

_Too early for Boxing Day sales. Surely she’s still in bed, surely…_

Traffic was clear for most of the way, but Sansa still drove a little too quick, then slowed as she remembered who — or what — she had just turned into. 

She pulled into the side street, parking badly. _Don’t care, can’t care…_

Her door. She pressed the doorbell once. And then twice. Its chime was so soft, too soft. If Margaery was still dead to the world, how the hell could she hear anything? 

Sansa started pounding the door. Then almost fell in when the door gave way suddenly.  

“What!” Margaery snapped, before stopping in shock. “Sans?” 

“Oh Marge, I’m so sorry, so sorry... But something has happened. I need to talk to you!” 

“Wha… _now?_ ” 

“If it’s okay? I just drove over to you.” 

“But… I’m not ready! Um… could you wait downstairs… or-or… just wait here, give me five minutes?” 

“Wait here? Outside?” 

“Ju…just give me a moment!”  

And Sansa looked at Margaery properly for the first time that day. Smoky eyeshadow. 

She looked down at the doormat by the door and her heart shrank. 

“Sans…?” 

But Sansa had pushed past Margaery by then. The shoes, she recognised straightaway. Then a sock. And then another. And like fucking Hansel and Gretel, Sansa followed the path of discarded designer clothing, picking up speed until she threw open the bedroom door. 

And there sat Petyr, still in his silk boxers. On the bed, legs crossed, expectant. Expression calm. Eyes hollowed perhaps. Or dead to her. 

She felt a sob catch in her throat. But then rage as well. 

“Fucking cliché,” Sansa snarled, and she reached into her tote bag to retrieve the box with that blasted white stick with some of her pee on it still. 

“I hope you're both proud of yourselves,” she hissed, as she threw the box at Petyr and missed his head. 

Then she sprinted from the apartment before she threw up on his shoes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOKAY. 
> 
> So after Treachery and a couple of people going, "Gahhhh! This is too painful! This isn't what I signed up for! I'm outta here!", I want to start by saying I UNDERSTAND. It hurts big when Petyr is Schmucky. 
> 
> But if you're thinking I just recycled the same plot twist in two separate stories, I want to ask you to stick with me for a while. There are parallels, but Tyndyr is a modern fic with a modern Petyr who ultimately needs a swift kick up his behind as much as some TLC. And I think you know by now that not everything is at it seems around here. 
> 
> So I'm sorry you're screaming at your screen. Especially if you (1) were hoping for no pregnancy and (2) were hoping for no cheating. And then I went and did this. But I hope to make it up to you all. This isn't the end, sweet reader.
> 
> So take a deep breath. Petyr's about to do some soul-searching.


	17. Chapter 17

**BOXING DAY — 8:08AM**

“What is it?” Margaery asks. 

But he already knows what it is.  

He picks the box up with a calm he probably shouldn’t feel. The only thing that gives him away is the slight tremor in his hands as he grips the box with his left and rips open the flap at the top with his right. He gives himself a cardboard cut in the attempt.  

Margaery’s eyes widen when she realises what the packaging says. 

Petyr pulls out the white stick, stuffed in the box along with badly refolded instructions. Sure enough, the line is bright blue right where it says: 

“Pregnant.” 

* * *

**CHRISTMAS MORNING — 4:02AM**

Petyr’s eyes opened. They had been closed for the last good while, but he had been awake for almost an hour.

He flicked on his phone. Nothing, no messages. She had wished him a Merry Christmas and he had blown kisses and left it firmly in her court. And then nothing from her. 

Even Tyrion had given more of a to-and-fro about Christmas than she had. But no. Nothing. 

He ran through his options. He could catch up on work from home. Hell, he could catch up on work in the office. The building was shut, but he had the keys and the codes. L&S was officially shut down over the Christmas break like everyone else in town, in the whole fucking country. Australia grounds to a booze-worshipping, merrymaking halt on Christmas week, except perhaps for retail on Boxing Day. It had always been the perfect time of year to catch up, to tie up loose ends, to get on top of the game by the time the new year fireworks went off over the Sydney Harbour Bridge.  

He didn’t do Christmas. Hadn’t done Christmas for the last decade at least. No family, and friends had learned to stop asking. Tyrion and Shae were the only exception he made. 

But he couldn’t work on Christmas day, not this year. He flicked on his phone again and ran through his messages. Only the ones in Sansa’s folder. 

The coffee machine whirred as it prepared to percolate. He leaned against the counter and watched as dark liquid caffeine dripped, then dribbled into the glass. The silence screamed around him otherwise, as if loud-hailing his solitude. He drank his _espresso_ , downing it quickly like medication. 

On impulse, he walked back to his room and pulled the travel bag from underneath his bed. He started tossing a few items in. A shirt. Pants. Toiletries bag. 

He looked at the clock. If he left in the next half hour, he would be right on time for a real breakfast. 

* * *

**CHRISTMAS MORNING — 8:07AM**

By the time he booked a room and left his bag with reception, it was just on half-past. Thank fuck the café attached to the hotel was open. It was probably the only thing open this morning for miles around. 

What the hell was he doing in Canberra. And yet like a moth to a flame, he had found himself sliding into the DB9 and making the trek. He had a whole three hours to think about turning around, but every tangent, every thought, every wrestle finally led him here anyway. 

And she wasn’t even here. She was across the country, surrounded by family and tradition and whatever it was that made her leave. And obviously busy and happy enough that he didn’t warrant any of her time or attention.  

He knew he was being a petulant shit. And here he was. In her city. Just to feel close to her. 

What the hell had he done! The shops were all closed. The glorified country town of Canberra was deader than usual, which was saying something. Nothing was open. People fled the capital to go home to their families. And he drove here. 

He ordered a pretentious smashed avocado on toasted sourdough bread, crumbed with feta and drizzled with balsamic glaze. He paid way too much for it. And as he chewed, he checked his phone again. No messages. 

He read the Canberra Times from cover to cover because it hardly took any time at all. And then he checked his phone again at nine. A message. 

_In the interest of full disclosure,_  
_this text is to tell you that my mother invited_  
_Harrold Hardyng to Christmas lunch today._   

So formal. He tried to imagine her saying the words to him. Was she being ironic? Was she cool and aloof? He couldn’t tell, yet it felt like a cup of cold water had just been splashed on his insides. Harrold is there with the family. _Fucking Harrold_ was _family._ Harrold was there and yet he was here because she didn’t want to have to explain him.  

That still stung, by the way. 

Would she protest that she was already seeing someone? That pushing Harrold and her together was a useless exercise? Somehow, he didn’t think so. 

He texted back tersely. It gave him a very small, hollow sense of satisfaction. 

_Is this where I’m supposed to be concerned?_

He tossed the phone back on the table and waited. He sipped his boiling-hot flat white but one eye was kept on the screen. And he waited. 

Two minutes later, she pinged back. 

_No._   

* * *

**BOXING DAY — 8:10AM**  

“What are we going to do?” 

That was enough to snap him out of it. He turned his head slowly to consider her.  

“What do you mean  _we_.” 

* * *

**CHRISTMAS MORNING — SOMETIME BEFORE LUNCH**  

Eventually, he found himself at Lake Burley Griffin after walking through a large, picturesque park. From the distance, he could see two bridges stretch across to the other side, where block after block of august, stately buildings of State lined the shorefront. Beyond that, he recognised, were the myriad of government ministries he had spent much of the last quarter of the year courting in earnest. 

This was the lake, he realised, she had been telling him about. She jogged its curves often when the weather wasn’t freezing cold or about to give her melanoma. Right now it was a still, summer’s day and the sunshine was brilliant but not uncomfortable. He strolled along the footpath, taking in the almost sweet fresh air that tasted nothing like Sydney’s. He took in the prettiness, the manufactured artistry that public service money could buy, the orderliness of a relatively young capital that was borne of necessity and design. He felt his whole body start to relax, the torporific atmosphere slowing his gait, infusing in him a rare sense of serenity.

He wanted to tell her he understood now. He wanted to talk to her about this moment in Canberra and how he could see why she didn’t mind living here.  

Chimes sang a Christmas favourite from a carillon in the distance when a phone message pinged. 

Margaery. 

_Merry Christmas._

A beat.  

_And to you._

 

_Have you spoken to Sansa?_

 

_No._

 

_You know she’s in Perth, right? Out on the property?  
Guess who is there with her now._

 

_She told me about the lunch with Harrold._

 

_Yeah… but I can’t believe he’s staying for a whole week._

He stilled. He hadn’t known about that. He did now. 

* * *

**BOXING DAY — 8:11AM**  

“You need to call her! Oh gods, oh gods...” 

It is like wading through molasses. Numbly, he finds his phone. Numbly, he flicks it on. His mind stutters, stupefied, and he tries to recall the next step. That’s right. He was going to find her number. 

It is ringing. It keeps on ringing. And then it goes dead. 

He should have expected that.  

* * *

**CHRISTMAS DAY — 4:45PM**  

He checked into the hotel and allowed the lack of sleep to catch up and overtake him. His nap was dreamless but fitful and when he woke up with a start, his first thought was to wonder what the hell he was doing there. His disorientation lasted long after he gave his clothes a quick iron and flicked on the TV.   

He was driving aimlessly in the car around five in the evening when a message pinged through the car’s dashboard. 

_How’s your Christmas going?_

And then, 

_Mine’s quiet._   

And then, 

_Harrold being there is driving me nuts. Can we talk?_

* * *

**CHRISTMAS DAY — 5:48PM**  

He had found the café easily enough. Margaery’s cheery assurances of good coffee, decent food, even a live band proved rather persuasive in the end. 

She was already in the booth waiting for him, her brown hair loose and wavy down her back, make-up still perfect even though she was wearing a casual black silky bare-shoulder ruffle blouse and white skin-tight capris, her feet in a pair of soft leather loafers. He learnt all sorts of things — that she was in Canberra this year, that she alternates between cities and decided a while ago that she would give herself a year in three to switch off from family Christmases. That she finds her family too much, that despite appearances she was actually an introvert, that she was actually a homebody. 

He was wary at all times, but he was also appreciative of the company.  

She asked him early in the piece about what he was doing in Canberra. He found a way not to answer that one.  

"I wonder what the both of them are doing now?” she mused. 

He took out a cigarette and lit it, then took a deep drag.  

“What do you want, Margaery?” 

* * *

**CHRISTMAS DAY — 7-SOMETHING**  

“He wants to get back into her bed and marry her inheritance again. I just know it.” 

They were back to that. They had circled the cricket scores, work, what living in Canberra is like after growing up in Melbourne, how there can be fuck-all to do here but that’s half the greatness, and Ramsay, and Joffrey, and that Christmas party, and dancing around how much money both of them actually have. 

She was rich. That much was obvious from the start. She was old money, but not as old money as Sansa. Sansa was old money, going back even before the First Fleet.  

“And you know that because...?” 

“Because he’s there and he’s sucking up to the mother so hard. He can’t _stand_ the mother. He’s always hated the entire family.” 

Not for the first time this evening, it struck Petyr how almost rattled Margaery seemed to be by Harry’s inclusion in the Stark Family Christmas. If anything Margaery Tyrell did could ever be classified as rattled.   

“Why did you like him?” He was very careful to talk about the affection in the past tense. 

“Have you looked at him? He’s a demigod, at the very least. And he’s great in bed.” 

“Not from what I’ve… learnt.” His eyes glinted in challenge. Affronted.  

“If you’re talking about Sansa… it takes two to tango in the sheets,” she shot back tartly. “I love the girl, but she’s not very adventurous. And I’m guessing he got lazy because she was a sure thing, not going anywhere. He likes the chase, our Harry. Dirty, _dirty_ Harry. He got _me_ off very well, thank you. And he would have only improved with age, I imagine." 

Petyr shrugged, the very portrait of a man unperturbed and unconvinced. He took another drag of his third cigarette. It struck him right then that little Margaery here was quite possibly still living in the past. _Interesting._

“They’re snobs, both families. The Starks and the Arryns. They like to think themselves as purebred and if you trace his and Sansa’s line far back enough, you’ll find that they’re related through marriage. His grand-aunt, especially, is a real bitch and we absolutely hated each other. Used to amuse the hell out of him — he got a kick out of sneaking me into his room after that, and then making me come noisily. Hah! 

"But Harry and I, we actually got on really well. Not just fuck-buddies. We’d sit on the roof of his house some nights and talk about shit, about everything. He’s a really decent guy underneath. Funny too.   

“And then one day, it just happened. He told me he was going to start seeing Sansa. Just like that. I never got to the bottom of why, but I’m betting every last Louboutin shoe I’ll ever wear that the old bitch wanted him to stay the hell away from me and waved his inheritance in front of him.   

“And then the first time I meet Sansa, she’s this uptight, self-righteous, proper little lady. Breeding, the right accent, everything. And everything was about not being _vulgar_ with her lot. You don’t dress up a certain way because that would show off your wealth, which is _vulgar_. You keep your charitable deeds hidden and don’t attend galas because it’s _crass_. There was this whole other moral code attached to their kind of rich. Like they were better than the lot of us.” 

“The _nerve_ of them,” he drawled mockingly. But he was fascinated.  

“He didn’t love her, you know.” Her big brown eyes were fixed on his now. “He cheated on her every chance he got. I know I was one of them, but there were others. Many others. I was used to sharing. But then what we had was... different.” 

“D’you… you know... love him?” 

Her eyes flicked away then, and for the very first time he thought he saw a chink in her Oscar de la Renta armour. “Can I have that cigarette?” 

There were heaps in the pack, but she took the one between his fingers, wrapping her lips around the filter daintily and sucking her cheeks in before blowing out the side of her mouth.  

And then the million dollar question back. 

“So why are you here and she’s there with Harry?” 

“Why indeed.” 

A ping.  

_Turns out Harry is staying for dinner._

_Of course_ he is. The timing was just impeccable.  _And if you only knew where I am, what you have reduced me to, who I’m with._

He typed quickly back.  _Then enjoy your dinner._ He tossed his phone back on the table, face down.  

“Let’s have dinner,” said Margaery. 

“I don’t feel like eating.” 

She looked at him. “Who said anything about eating.” 

* * *

**CHRISTMAS DAY — 10-SOMETHING**  

And then he was back in his hotel room. His car was still at that pub, just a stone’s throw away from her apartment, if you had a good arm.  

His hotel room. He hated his hotel room. And he _loathed_ the fact he had even come. But he can't drive back to Sydney. He can’t drive at all.  

Pathetic. _pathetic_. Whipped like cream.  

They had sat and just drunk. That slip of a girl could seriously drink him under the table. He had been sure to keep it very slow. But then, they had been there hours. 

And she had been good company. She was a funny, funny drunk. And then he had walked her to her flat, kissed her customarily on the cheek, and then ordered a cab back to the hotel like the good little boy he wasn’t. 

She had made him forget, at least for a little while. His phone had been left on silent but he took it out now, only to find a series of messages. All from Sansa. 

_My problem is that I care too much about_  
_what my mother thinks._  
_I always have. Can’t help it._

He snorted. At least she was self-aware.  

_And then what am I going to do about Harry,  
after dinner tonight?_

 

 _And then Petyr. Should I tell him that  
Harry is staying over? He doesn’t know._  

 

_I was going to tell him, but then I didn’t.  
He’s behaving like a child right now._

 

And then, 

_Harry’s in the next room, by the way.  
What if he tries something tonight?_

 

Even in his booze-soaked state, a flash of white-hot anger ran through him like a knife.  

His Scotch thumbs got to work. They meshed the keys furiously and he had to slow down to rewrite until he was typing like a toddler, but at least he got there in the end and his proofreading wasn’t too compromised. 

_ So I’m a child, am I?  _

He sent it, and then cursed loud and long. That had sounded _exactly_ like a child’s reaction. _Dafuq_. And it was not like he could recall the message now. It’s gone. It’s there. 

He called her, because fuck it. It was time to call quits on this painful game of studied nonchalance. He would blink first. It was time to fucking apologise. 

“Hello?" 

He took a moment to steady himself before he trusted himself enough to speak without slurring.  

“Hello, Sweetling." 

“Petyr!" 

His heart swelled at her voice. She sounded so happy to hear from him. And all at once, every shackle of insecurity and doubt broke off him. He felt light, free. 

“Petyr, could you please hold the line, just for a moment? Please don’t go anywhere…”

And then there was the interminable wait. All muffled sounds for a time, but then the phone shifted suddenly and everything became clear.

Harry’s voice. Then Sansa’s.

“I’m sorry about dinner. I shouldn’t have led you on like that —“

“You looked so beautiful.”

“Stop saying that!"

“But I can’t. Sansa, I love you! Why won’t you believe me? Why won’t you give me a second chance? Because I know you can feel something for me. It’s in there somewhere.”

Then silence. That awful, sickening silence that spoke only of a break in conversation because her mouth, perhaps even her _tongue,_ was otherwise engaged. 

She spoke first. “What do you think you’re doing!”

“I just want you to remember us!”

He hung up.

* * *

“He’s with her.” 

“I know.”

“ _I know_ you know! You’ve been texting each other. Were you also talking about me? While I was sitting across the table from you? Fucking sorority women!”

“What happened!”

“He’s with _her!_ ” And at the last, his voice cracked. _Don’t you dare sob. Don’t you fucking dare drunk-cry in the hallway on Christmas day, you fucking loser._

Margaery looked stunned. And then she grabbed his shirt and pulled him in for a kiss.

Their mouths clashed, taking him completely by surprise. But then a tiny voice in his head punched the air and shouted, _Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it._  He stumbled out of his shoes, bending his leg back to peel his socks off one by one. He’d always hated shagging with his socks on. Just a completely ridiculous look, being totally in the duffer with just a condom around your pecker and a fucking pair of socks on.

_Let’s fucking do this. Let’s fucking not care._

Margaery was murmuring now about how she remembered listening to them. Something about a shared wall. 

“The whole night, when you were fucking Sansa in that hotel room so hard, my own bed almost shook… that whole night, all I wanted to know was how your cock would feel inside me, if it could make her come like that.”

A flash of them in that bed, of him taking her slowly from behind in the wee hours of that fateful morning he opened his heart and Lysa came out. Of how she sighed into his mouth when she was close. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Shut up,” he gritted out then. “Don’t talk about her.” _Please._

She peeled his shirt off him. She was still full dressed, but he was already half naked. Her nails raked over his chest. The sounds she was making should turn him on, but they did nothing for him. 

He kissed her harder, his tongue plunging her mouth. He thought about where it was going, thought about the physical act of playing with her tongue, of working up to that hot and bothered stage. But nothing. 

All he had to do was look at Sansa and he was hard. In the boardroom. In the bedroom. Didn’t matter.  

He wanted _her_. He wanted her now before him, in lieu of this stranger. But instead what swam before his mind’s eye was the vision of Harry sticking his fucking tongue down her beautiful, long throat.  

He pulled back from Margaery, shaking his head soundlessly as if the nightmare could scatter like smoke. _I can’t._

But Margaery was already working his buckle. He felt his belt go slack, then his pants pool around his ankles. Her nails skimmed down his body and she groped his boxers. He grabbed her by the wrist on reflex, pulling her hand away. 

“You’re still soft,” she murmured. It was an accusation. 

“I can’t,” he blurted then, “I can’t.” 

“I can _see_ you can’t,” she replied, not quite hiding her disgust. 

_No, you don’t understand_ , he wanted to shout. But he was drunk and slow, and right now he could feel the anxiety tightening his chest, welling up, welling up… 

“I can’t do this to her,” he heard himself say. And then like a broken gramophone, “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t…” 

This was a bloody nightmare. _She has ruined me. I am ruined._

* * *

**BOXING DAY — EARLIER THAT MORNING**  

His eyes slit open, barely registering where he was.  

That’s right. He was in Margaery's flat. They hadn’t fucked. He couldn’t fuck. He was fucked. 

He pulled himself up from the couch, just when Margaery floated into view from her room.  

“Get into my room,” she hissed, as he registered the sound of her doorbell and a pounding of the door. _So that was what he had been dreaming._

The sound of muffled voices, of Margaery’s. And then his ears pricked. _No…_

_What was she doing here! Wasn’t she supposed to be in Perth?_ Was he so lovesick that any woman’s voice could be reimagined to be hers? 

But then she was in the apartment, and he sensed the footsteps on the bamboo floor moving towards his door. 

_If it was her…_ But it was too late now. He looked down at his boxers, at the small bedroom crammed with too many clothes and shoes. There was nowhere to hide.  

He sat and braced himself, his feelings colliding at breakneck speed, thick and jumbled until they cancelled each other out and he felt… nothing. 

Even when her heart broke on her face, he felt nothing. 

When she threw the box at his head, he sat rooted to the spot, a part of him shrivelling with each departing step as she sprinted for the door. 

* * *

**BOXING DAY — 8:15AM**

“You have to tell her!” She is sobbing now. Her tears are spilling down her cheeks, running her freshly applied mascara. “You have to tell her that nothing happened!” 

He looks at her coolly, a tinge of disbelief. “Did nothing happen?” 

“Did nothing happen?” she repeats incredulously. “What do you… Don’t you even remember? _We didn’t sleep together!_ ” 

“That’s just semantics,” he replies stonily.  

“It mattersI The difference matters! You have to tell her! Please! If not for your sake, then mine!” 

He looks down at the white stick in stupefaction, unable to decide what to feel.  


	18. Chapter 18

Sansa watched as her phone flashed again and counted the seconds before her voicemail kicked in. And then she took a rather perverse pleasure in logging into her account and deleting Margaery’s voice, silencing her cold.

She was up to seven by now. It gave her something to do. Each time she deleted one without listening, she felt just a little bit stronger. 

_It was time_ , she thought. She went through her phonebook and blocked Margaery’s number. And then she went through each social media account she could think of and blocked, unfriended, unfollowed, deleted, _exiled_ the traiterous, conniving, greedy little bitch.

Petyr, on the other hand, called but he never left a voice mail. Instead, he texted a lot. _That_ was a lot harder to ignore, the drips and drifts of words as they flashed on the screen, sometimes before she could swipe them away.

_Sansa, please…_

_If we could just..._

_I know you probably hate..._

_I’m sorry. When you came..._

_I fucked up, I know_

_I fucked up, I know_

_I fucked up, I know_...

She scrolled through her phonebook until her thumb rested on his name, his face. The drop-down menu helpfully offered to block him. But instead, she turned her phone off and then let it slip from her fingers so it bounced on the bed before landing on the carpeted floor.

* * *

The goo was cold. The technician was far too cheerful for a Monday morning and prattled on as she moved the wand inside her. So far, she had monologued her Christmas and the great finds at the Boxing Day sales, and then her New Year plans. _The poor dear_ , thought the merry technician as Sansa remained monosyllabic. _Probably too nervous and shy to want to say much at all. No father in the room, I see. Her first child too. Such a pretty lady._

“Oh my!” she laughed suddenly, pointing at the screen with her other hand. “Look at the size of ‘im. Or ‘er. When did you say you last had intercourse?”

“I didn’t,” Sansa replied. “That is… I didn’t tell you when I last… had… any.”

“Well, looks like bub is about four months and three days today. And a feisty little thing already.” She popped out the wand, then squeezed goo on her before pressing a different contraption near her pelvis. She froze pictures and started drawing lines on the screen with the computer deftly. “There’s an arm, and there’s the legs… and do you want to know the sex, love?”

“Um… hang on…”

“Bit of a surprise, then? I won’t tell you.” She winked conspiringly. “You might feel bub move before too long, actually. The way bub is moving, you’ll feel it in a couple of weeks.”

“What?”

“Gonna get eyelashes too. Did you know they get eyelashes at this stage? And nails. Baby’s size of a turnip and it’s got nails. Isn’t that gorgeous?”

“Wait…” Sansa called weakly, still working through the fog. “Did you say _four months_?” 

“And three days.” Another freeze-frame and a measure. _Big head,_ Sansa thought. _Like its father._

“Is it… healthy?” 

“Would you like to listen to something?” replied the technician warmly. And then a strange sound floated into the room. A whirring, a warble, fast and constant and almost alien yet soothing.

“Heartbeat,” smiled the technician as Sansa’s mouth went slack, her chest suddenly tight.

* * *

The view from the wooden deck wasn't half bad. The cabin itself was built on a slope so the back of it was on stilts and at level with the canopy of trees. Colourful budgies hopped across the balustrade during meal times, accustomed to humans and expectant of treats. Sansa settled down on one of the deck chairs gingerly, a hot cup of tea in her hand. A gentle breeze would blow through the trees now and again so they sounded like brushes on snares. It was pleasant in the shade, not too hot although she would have to be careful once the sun started sinking in the afternoon.

Even after three days, she gazed at her phone out of habit. She had changed her SIM card to a prepaid one. No one could reach her even if they tried. She turned the damn thing off, placed it face down on the side table to her right.

She was alone, although perhaps for the first time in her life she understood the word more perfectly than ever. Her parents were no doubt pissy about her Arya-like AWOL stunt, and she had lost both closest friend and lover in the one dirty dalliance. She had left home at eighteen and had lived on her own since. But this was the first time in almost ten years she felt well and truly alone.

_Well, except for this little fella of course. With the nails and the eyelashes and the heartbeat._

She forced herself to settle back in the chair. A green view was supposed to be relaxing. And she had much to think about.

There was the finances, of course. Once news of this broke, she was fairly certain to have words with her family and the last thing she wanted was to have her child born out of wedlock but brought up on their dime. She would rather go it alone than be beholden to them, constantly reminded of her epic carelessness and stupidity. There was also a good chance that after the histrionics die down about her loss of marriageability to the wonderful Harrold Hardyng, she would be cut off from the trust fund as well. No point crying over _that_  hypothetical; Sansa realised long ago she hadn't a snowflake's chance in hell of touching that well of money when Petyr walked in.

But where did that leave her now? 

She needed a livelihood. The temptation to walk away from it all and set up a new life in a new city was tempting, but risky. It wasn't like she was personally minted, even though her family name was venerable. Her parents had never believed in hand-outs for any of the kids; even her own mortgage was out of her pocket. _You are privileged enough,_ they used to say and say often. _You have beauty and brains and an education. Now go use them. We don’t owe you a living._

There was no guarantee she would get a good job in time anyway. She was four months pregnant! And as much as she understood how anti-discrimination laws worked, she had been in management long enough to know how royally pissed off companies get when they gained a new hire only to learn she'd be buggering off after a quarter year to go have a baby. 

Then there was housing. She would have to sell this apartment to afford an even smaller one in a bigger city, and yet she was going to have to share it with a whole other human being who would need space to roam. She would know no-one. She would have no network of her own (and she refused to use her parents' contacts), no close friends. _Not that she had many now,_ Sansa reminded herself, her lips twisting ruefully. But at least she knew this city at the back of her hand. How many changes could she put up with in the one go before she broke?

Besides which, she would lose all the maternity benefits she had accrued from her steadfast service in the public sector. What they lacked in pay, they tried hard to make up for in benefits. And Sansa was determined to cash in at last. Use it or lose it, as they say.

The PM&C would match every month that the government family welfare scheme handed out. That was four months of solid pay. And by then her tenth anniversary in the public service would tick over, which meant she could then access a windfall of three solid months of paid leave. Including her current accumulated recreational leave — for Sansa seldom to never took time off, much to the consternation of HR — she had almost a year's worth of paid maternity leave. If she lived on half-pay, she could even stretch it to two.

Two full years. That would give a girl plenty of time to reorient her life. To move cities, sell and buy houses, change her career, find better friends. Learn what she really liked to do.

It was practical. It was tempting. The sums worked out perfectly. But she would have to work with Margaery and Petyr for the next four months at least. Her belly would swell and people would talk. Could she bear that, she thought. Could she stand the gossip and the pity? Her mother's grim disappointment? Her father's embarrassment? Could she stand to share the office with that treacherous bitch, the one who quite possibly broke her heart more than even Petyr had?

Her hand moved instinctively to her tummy, just like Talisa's kept doing before.

_I would have to._

* * *

That was Day. In the day, she would sit and think. She would read and journal and catch up on sleep. Once a day, she would make the trek downhill for two-hundred metres or so through the trees before soil gave way to white sand and pristine beach. And there she would sit in the shade to stare out at the unending ocean and feel acutely her place in the universe. She was tiny. And the life inside her, tinier still.

It was night when the tears and doubts came. When she closed her eyes and saw only endless, lonely struggle. When she mourned her losses, including her loss of freedom. How could she even begin to pick up the pieces, when chunks of her had been savagely torn from her bones? The people she yearned to talk to were the very reason her tears continued to flow. 

She tried not to think of his mouth on hers, his breath on her neck, his cock slipping in and out at a fevered pace, his calls of pleasure at the end and the way his fingers would lace with hers — except now they were not her hands but Margaery's. And then both of them cuddled in bed, in the afterglow. Both laughing and mocking her. _Oh stupid, stupid Sansa. Did she say she loved you? She did. Silly girl. So gullible and naïve. What else did she tell you about me?_

Sometimes the pain would come on so quick, so unexpectedly, her body would curl and tense as her heart squeezed. She would bury her head in her pillow, eyes shut and wet, riding it out until she no longer felt overwhelmed. It was not dissimilar to an exquisite orgasm, which was such a cruel irony. 

The first night she didn’t cry was the first time she felt she could be ready enough.

* * *

She replaced her SIM card and turned her phone back on. Within minutes, every missed call alert and text message came dinging her phone but she ignored them all.

 

12:48pm  
SANSA STARK  
I am ready to talk, and I want you to listen.  
I’ll be at Blackbird tomorrow at 10:30am.  
Don’t bother calling. Text if you can’t make it  
or won’t. At least give me that courtesy.  
 

12:48pm  
CHEATING PRYCK  
I am very glad to hear from you.  
I will be there.   
Thank you. Thank you, thank you.

 

She placed her phone on silent. That was enough social interaction for one day. Now she had to think of what to say.

* * *

She arrived fifteen minutes early so she could prepare herself. It was still a public holiday since New Year’s day fell on a weekend and  _Blackbird_  was one of the hidden gems willing to caffeinate their patrons, far away enough from retail outlets not to get swamped, yet close enough to have a steady stream of loyal customers from nearby shops and homes. 

But he was already there, sitting by the windows and looking out. He had not seen her yet, his gaze faraway and unseeing. He looked tired, older, even a little crumpled. He sat slightly slumped in his chair, the shirt needing a little iron, the manscaping on his face rather abandoned so his face now seemed rounder even as the rest of his frame looked thin. He was pale, wan. _Almost as bad as me_

It gave her a tiny measure of spiteful pleasure.  

He turned when she started to make her way to him. The way his eyes lit up when he saw her made a small lump form in her throat. _You bastard. You still make me feel things._

“Sansa…” he murmured, but she held up her hand.  

“ _I_ will do most of the talking,” she replied coldly. “I’m not interested in your cock and bull stories. I’m here purely on business. I’ll give you a small chance to speak after, but you should know straight up that the moment I smell any bullshit, I’m leaving. I’m not in the mood for your honeyed words.” 

She thought she saw a flicker of hurt in his eyes, but he blinked and gave a small smile. “Of course,” he replied softly. The waitress came round with her little gadget to take their orders and they rattled off their poisons. She was having a peppermint tea and he, the strongest black coffee they could bear to make without going full Turk. 

She took out her script and laid it in front of her. When his eyes flicked over the page, she scowled at him. 

“Up here. Look at me,” she commanded, and he did. Their eyes locked and she noted the bags under his. The crows feet on the edges looked deeper, or perhaps the shine of him had gone off and she now saw only his imperfections. 

She glanced at her notes for guidance but she didn’t have to, really. She had been reciting this speech in her head for days. 

“I’m keeping the baby,” she began, her tone flat and resolute. “This is not up for negotiation. You told me once that if the woman you’re banging ever rocks up to claim the _foetus_ is yours, you’ll see that it gets aborted and then you’re out of there. Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re free to go take a very long walk off a short pier, but the foetus, this  _baby,_ stays with me." 

“Sansa…” 

“I’m not finished,” she cut in sharply, her eyes glinting in warning. He bit his lip and she waited a second or two before she continued. 

“I will not pursue child support. You will not pursue custody. You will not use this child to ingratiate yourself with me. As far as anyone else knows or will be told, we don’t know who the father is. It will remain our secret. You are free to walk away, to get right back on Tyndyr and fuck whomever you want to fuck to feel like a man. Even Margaery. I don’t care anymore. We are through.” 

“Please... May I speak now?” His voice was suddenly like sandpaper.  

“No. I have another thing I need to square off.” She bent down to fish out that other document from her bag now, and was pleased when she found it. She wasn’t usually forgetful, but lately… 

“This is a waiver. You will sign it. It says pretty much what I just said, about you not pursuing custody and me not pursuing child support. We will owe each other exactly nothing. It will be a clean break.” 

He took the document from her gingerly, and scanned the page quickly. “You know this won’t hold up in a court of law,” he cautioned. 

“Are you fucking _threatening_ me, Mr Baelish?” 

“No.” He held his hands up immediately, conciliating.  

She took out her pen and pushed it across the table towards him. 

“Then sign it. It gives you everything that you want. Absolutely zero responsibility and all the freedom you desire.” 

“That is not what I want at all.” 

“Well, you could have fooled me."   

 “Sansa…” He leaned forward. The paper in his hand was trembling slightly. She watched it with a dispassionate air she didn’t quite feel. “Can we please talk?” 

“In a moment. I haven’t talked about work yet.” Her eyes narrowed then. 

“In the interest of not drawing unnecessary attention to our situation, I am withdrawing myself from directly liaising with L&S. Margaery, as my second, will liaise with you from now on. She will report to me only in writing.” She couldn’t help but add, "Then the both of you can see as _much_ of each other as you want, as frequently as you like. Yet another gift from me to the both of you.” 

“Sansa, I didn’t sleep with her!” 

“So you say,” she hissed back. “What, your clothes miraculously fell off your body on the way to her bed because you lost your way and thought somehow her flat in O’Connor, Canberra was your house in Surry Hills? What?” 

“Who’s having the coffee?” the waitress chirped just then. Both Petyr and Sansa stiffened as she laid their drinks on the table. “Anything else?” 

“A sharp, pointy object.” 

“Sorry? I didn’t hear you.” 

“Nothing,” Sansa waved vaguely and the waitress wisely made her retreat.  

“Sansa, I didn’t sleep with her. I _couldn’t_ sleep with her! I—“ 

“You must be very disappointed.” 

“I slept over, that is true. But I was on the couch. Alone.” 

“Did you kiss her?” 

He stopped, his face suddenly ashen and haunted. The pain that sliced through her heart at that moment felt like it came from a frozen ice-pick. 

“You fucking manslut,” she hissed.  

“And I deeply regret that with every breath I take. But Sansa —“ And he reached out for her hand then. She pulled it back as if his touch could burn her and again, that look of pain flashed across his face.  

“I didn’t sleep with her,” he finished lamely and he actually looked miserable. 

“But you stuck your tongue down her throat,” she replied and shrugged. “That’s just semantics.” 

At that, his head shot up, his face stricken.  

“I know,” he whispered defeatedly, and she felt her eyes prickle dangerously. _Dammit. Damn him. And damn her for caring still._

She straightened her back. 

“There is nothing more to say,” she replied curtly. “Sign the waiver and I’ll be off.” 

“I can’t sign the waiver… I don’t want to.” His eyes searched hers and he sat forward again, although this time he laced his fingers tightly before him, almost as if to keep himself from reaching out to touch her.  

“Please…” he implored. “Is there any way I can… I don’t want to lose you.” 

“Should have thought about that before you lost your kit at Margaery’s house.” She marvelled at her tone, at how flippant she sounded. Perhaps she was good at acting after all. Something to think about, perhaps? Once she loses this day job? She fought down a sardonic laugh and pushed her pen forward.  

“Sign it.” 

“I should at least contribute to the cost of bringing up… this child.”  

“I don’t want your stupid money. Sign it.” 

“I can’t do this to you!” 

That was when she really lost it. 

“You can’t do _what_ to me, exactly? _What_ is it you haven’t already done, Petyr? You’ve shafted me in every possible way. Why the HELL would I want you in my life now so you can fuck it up more!”  

A few tables around them stopped to look over curiously. The waitress who had been on her way over to suggest cake was now slowly retracing her steps and backing the hell out. 

She could feel the tears welling. _Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit._ She forced herself to breathe until the lump in her throat dissolved. His nose was turning red too, she thought. _I don’t care._

_“_ I am richer than you could possibly be in your lifetime,” she added coolly. That was partially true at least. “I don’t need your money. You’re free to go.” 

“ _I don’t want to go!_ ” His voice actually cracked. “Please. Don’t push me away. _Please!_ " 

That. _That_ was her undoing at last. 

“Please,” she whispered, begging in return. “Just sign it. Just leave. Because I can’t… The way you have hurt me, I can’t…” Her bottom lip was quivering so hard now, the words couldn’t form. Tears were rolling down her face freely, salting her tea. She hadn’t thought to bring tissues. 

“Sansa!”   

“Just do it for me. The last thing I’ll ask of you, I promise. _Please._ Or I’ll just go insane…” Her nose was running now, and she grabbed both her used napkin and his dry one. She blew hard, not bothering to be dainty. Her face felt hot and blotchy. 

“I need this… don’t you see, Petyr… I need to be free of you.” 

She watched as a look of pure anguish seeped into his face. He finally looked as devastated as she felt. She should be gratified. Triumphant. But she only felt even worse. 

“Very well,” he rasped, and he took her pen from the table and twisted so the nib showed. He paused for a moment, as if summoning the strength, before moving the pen over the bottom line at last. He dated his signature, then pushed the waiver back together with the pen. 

She grabbed them both, then stood and fled through the side door behind her.  


	19. Chapter 19

She was ready, she thought. And even if she wasn’t, she couldn’t avoid this forever. 

The office was still very quiet at half past eight this morning. Usually, it would almost be full, with only the young parents straggling in after school drop-offs and going ten rounds around the parliamentary triangle, trying to find parking at this late hour.  

But it was early January and half of the office was away on holidays still. Schools only reopened in February.  _Just as well_ , Sansa thought. She could do with a quiet start. Fewer people to overhear if things with Margaery turned heated. Fewer people to witness the drama as mother and daughter finally met and talked in code about how she AWOLed Christmas at Winterfell. 

So many battles. Sansa felt tired already and yearned for her bed. 

Her office was still locked, which meant Margaery wasn’t in yet. She flicked on the light and was about to turn her computer on when she noticed a letter on her keyboard. The white envelope read: 

**Ms Sansa Stark**  
_Manager, Communications and Public Affairs Department_  
Ministry of the Prime Minister and Cabinet

She slipped her penknife under the top flap of the envelop and slit it open swiftly. Two pages fell out. The top page was typed and short. 

 

> **Ms Sansa Stark**  
>  _Manager, Communications and Public Affairs Department_  
>  Ministry of the Prime Minister and Cabinet  
>  Level 8, 1 National Circuit  
>  BARTON  Australian Capital Territory 2600  
> 
> **Ms Margaery Tyrell**  
>  1/50 Bluebell Street  
>  O’CONNOR  Australian Capital Territory 2602 
> 
>  
> 
> Dear Ms Stark, 
> 
> ** RE: Resignation from the Ministry of Prime Minister and Cabinet  **
> 
> It is with regret that I am writing to offer you my resignation from my position as Assistant Manager, Communications and Public Affairs at the Ministry of the PM&C. I apologise that I will not be able to provide my one month’s notice, but in the present circumstances, a swift and immediate resignation is for the best.     
> 
> I am relocating to be closer to my family and to seek a career change. I want to take this time to thank you for the seven wonderful years of unstinting support, guidance, and opportunity you provided me. You had made coming to work all these years worthwhile. 
> 
> Should you require anything further, please do not hesitate to contact me. My private email address and mobile number remain the same.  
> 
> Yours sincerely, 
> 
>  
> 
> Margaery Tyrell

 

It was then that she glanced across to Margaery’s table and noticed for the first time the empty shelves behind it. The keys to her desk and the room sat next to her security pass and ID card, on top of the end-of-employment checklist that required her own sign-off, as Margaery’s manager. 

She should not have left as she did, but somehow this was the lesser of the two concerns to Sansa. The second letter sat heavy in her hand, still folded. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in, holding it.  

When she exhaled, she opened her eyes and unfolded the page. Another letter, handwritten this time. 

 

> _ My dearest Sansa,  _
> 
> _ I’m so sorry. I wish I can explain why I did what I did but even then, I know there are no words except “I’m so sorry”. I have betrayed you in the worst way possible, and I know I should not expect forgiveness again. You were so good to forgive me the first time, and I threw that back in your face this Christmas like the brat I am.  _
> 
> _ There is no excuse, really. I am selfish and I love Harry. I always have. I know we never talked about it. I wonder if you even know this, actually. We used to talk about everything, but I could never admit this to you, not in person. What was the point, anyway. He was always supposed to be yours.  _
> 
> _ But I know my jealousy of you should never have pushed me to hurt you the way that I did. Boys are boys, but us girls should have stuck together and instead, I stuck it to you.   _
> 
> _ I want you to know that Petyr stayed true to you, even when I didn’t. In the end, even when I tried to get back at you (unfairly) for Harry, Petyr stayed yours. We never slept together. He was drunk (he’s quite the lightweight) and I'd tried to make the most of it, but even then he stayed yours. We didn’t sleep together because he could only think of you. He couldn't even kiss me properly. In the end, he slept on my couch and never touched me. I envy you that.  _
> 
> _ If I can give you at least a little bit of happiness in all this, then let me just say: hate me. But try and forgive Petyr. Because I think he’s the genuine article. I’ve never seen a man so gutted by the loss of you before.  _
> 
> _ I know I have no right to ask for  your forgiveness, but I do wish it all the same. I miss our friendship more than words can ever say. It remains my deepest regret.  _
> 
> _Marge_   

 

* * *

_So this is what the unemployed did,_ he mused. _No wonder the government is keen to keep them off the dole._

For the third day that week, Petyr found himself still in his night clothes at midday. “Working from home”, the laughable euphemism often bandied about by Cersei herself was now his catch cry. He answered emails enough to give a semblance of busyness and kept his phone off the hook as if he were perpetually busy with meetings, only calling back to the office occasionally.  

He was playing hooky. For the first time in gods know how long. And he was making up for lost time. 

There was something about the number three, Petyr had always found. “Third time’s the charm”, as the saying goes. A story has three acts, the temple was raised in three days, Rome was ruled by a triumvirate. Three strikes and you’re out, three ducks in cricket, trifectas. Three times a lady. Threesomes. Three little words. 

In the last two days, Petyr had, frankly, been rather drunk. Sometimes, he had drunk to remember. Most times, he had drunk to forget. Occasionally, he had drunk to gain clarity. Because chances are, the very thing that keeps bubbling to the surface is the very thing that matters most of all. It’s the subliminal talking.  

The subliminal, in the last two days, had been swiftly kicking his arse for being _such_ a tremendous ass. 

Harrold Fucking Hardyng. Why the hell had he been so threatened by Harrold Fucking Hardyng. Gods, he could _kick_ himself. 

Instead, he drank himself under the table for a bit and smoked like a chimney.  And then when the self-loathing finally passed, he thought about his next move. 

She didn’t want a bar of him. But perhaps she could be persuaded. She could try to avoid him by making Margaery the proxy, but surely she couldn’t avoid him forever. Surely there were events he could appear at unannounced. He had done it before. Canberra was a tiny town, after all. Everyone three degrees of separation from the Prime Minister himself.  

And then slowly. Slowly he would chase her, woo her even. Slowly, he would win her over. Surely. 

But what if he couldn’t? The look on her face at the end, when she begged him to walk away. _“Don’t you see, Petyr… I need to be free of you.”_

It had gutted him then. It gutted him now, that the most magnanimous thing he could do for her was to leave her the hell alone. Her, and _their_ child. 

She had called it a child. A _baby_ , even though it was still largely unformed and would die outside of her. But because it was not a mere foetus to her, it could nevermore be a mere foetus to him. They had gone and made a someone together. The concept alone still sent his heart racing, a potent mix of paralysing fear, stupefying awe, and something akin to excitement.  

And yet for her, he had signed his fatherhood away just to stop her tears. _What had he done._   

On the third day, he found the box he kept on the top shelf of the hallway closet, the one closest to his study nook. He brought it down now and dusted the cover lightly before easing it up then off. 

The notebooks were there, the drawings, the scattered ideas in a scrapbook bound by a rubber band. The business case he had printed and filed. He supposed he could find the soft copy somewhere, but there’s something about reading your own handwritten notes to yourself. Here they all were, half-baked, misshapen ideas as tenuous as clouds, some of them. But the blueprint, nonetheless, for his own company someday. 

There was very little holding him to this job, to this city. Only her. That much had surfaced in the fog of drink and smoke.  

If he tried once more and truly lost her, he knew he would be so shattered he might as well disappear and start anew someplace else, really. He turned the page and started reading his own executive summary.   

* * *

“Where have you _been?_ ” Tyrion hissed, as soon as the door closed behind him. 

“Tyrion!” Petyr beamed. “How was your New Year? Happy New Year, by the way.” 

“Petyr,” Tyrion stared up at him in all seriousness, the thick caterpillars above his puppy-dog eyes now knitted together into one hairy monobrow. “Tell me what’s going on.” 

Petyr kept his tone light and his face open as he shrugged. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about…” 

“Oh don’t act coy with me, you fucker,” Tyrion replied, exasperated. “You were _not_ ‘working from home’ any more than my sister was ‘skiing in Aspen’ when our father sent her to rehab kicking and screaming. Where the _hell_ were you? What’s going on?” And then in a low tone, “What happened between you and Sansa?” 

The tightening of Petyr’s eyes was the only indication that Tyrion had hit the jackpot, but Tyrion missed nothing. 

“What’s going on, Baelish?” He pulled himself up into the chair across the table from Petyr. The two friends eyeballed each other in a silent game of chicken.  

Petyr opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness, then laced his fingers once more. “Not much to say, really,” he replied conversationally. “We were seeing each other, and now we’re not.” 

“Well that bloody explains it,” Tyrion breathed, and Petyr cocked an eyebrow. 

“You’ve not heard?” Tyrion replied. “It’s obvious you’ve not heard, ‘cause I doubt you’ll be this calm if you knew. It’s the PM&C account.” 

“If you’re here to tell me that the primary contact is now Margaery Tyrell and not the Comms manager, I already know that.” 

“If only it were that simple,” shot back Tyrion. “But it’s not. Sansa called Cersei. Margaery’s quit. Left the Ministry. Moved interstate. Sansa's requested that you no longer be the Account Manager.” 

Petyr bit his lower lip. “Who is my replacement?” 

“Guess.” 

“Oberyn Martell.” A flash to the Christmas party and the two of them dancing. That was annoying, but Sansa could hold her own. The fact that he had been cut off, however… 

“Half correct,” Tyrion replied tersely. “But it gets worse. Olyvar’s out too.” 

This time, Petyr sat up and leaned forward in his chair. “What?” he snapped. “Who’s seconding, then?” 

“Oberyn.” 

Petyr swallowed then, as a knot started to form in his gut. “And who,” he asked softly, "may I ask, is now the lead Account Manager if Oberyn is seconding?” 

“My sister, in her infinite wisdom, has put forward Joffrey.” 

“FUCK!” 

“That’s not the worst.” 

“There’s more?!” Petyr almost yelled. All pretence at playing it cool had died like his hopes now. 

Tyrion smirked, but it was mirthless. “There’s more,” he replied quietly, his baritone voice deepening. “Cersei is sending you back to Hong Kong. For a month.” 

Petyr slumped back into his chair, stunned. 

“Fuck, Petyr. What the hell happened over Christmas!" 


	20. Chapter 20

_The man is running, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his sweat large and beading from his dark, curly mop of hair. He looks behind him, and there’s the sound of dogs in the distance. Under the canopy of trees, there’s a helicopter hovering ahead, temporarily thwarted but by no means deterred. He stumbles, then falls and the sound of the hounds grows a little louder, a little more menacing. He scrambles to his feet immediately, a desperate look in his eyes of the hunted as he races through the trees, darting and weaving until at last he faces the entrance of a humongous storm drain. He looks behind him one last time, his eyes widening as he spots something in the distance we cannot see. Then he is running as fast as he can, and all is dark until we near the end of the tunnel only to find that it is the end of the storm drain overlooking a huge drop to the dam below._  

_It is reminiscent of that iconic scene from The Fugitive, except the man is dark-skinned, foreign and therefore shifty, and the authorities are shouting at him in broad Crocodile Dundee accents. But before he can jump, the helicopter has descended to hover before him, the scream of an electric guitar the perfect foil as kickass rangers in Raybans swing out from the side and drop effortlessly beside our sweaty no-good runner. The guitar wails some more as the rest of the rangers catch up_ behind _him, the cute little sniffer beagles too, and the man looks around helplessly before he asks in a nondescript Middle Eastern accent,_  

_“How did you know it was me?”_

_To which one of the rangers replies, “Simple, mate. You have no AusPass.”_

_Then the voiceover — male, authoritative, sonorous. It reads the white overlay text on the screen:_

_**If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.  
AusPass. It's UnAustralian not to have one.  **_

_Fade to black._

 

The lights flickered back on in the conference room, and Joffrey eyed everyone with a gleefulness bordering on the manic and unprofessional. He looked, frankly, like an adolescent cat that just brought in its first dead lizard.  

Catelyn looked like someone had pissed into her fish tank. 

“Well?” Joffrey’s weedy voice wormed into the dead space. “Whaddaya think?”

Sansa opened her mouth, then closed it again. 

“It’s nothing like what we agreed on in December.”

“Precisely!” Joffrey grinned, and he almost looked boyishly handsome except Sansa had the distinct feeling she was about to lunge for his neck.

Joffrey was clearing his throat now and looking at Ramsay for support. The latter gave him two thumbs up and grinned. It annoyed Sansa no end that Ramsay had wandered into the room like he belonged there, cheerfully seating himself close to the front as if he were one of the prime decision-makers to sign off on the TVC. Who the hell had invited him anyway. 

“I had a look at your creative concept,” Joffrey began, barely able to keep the pride out of his voice. “We found a lot of weaknesses with the original concept, so my SWAT team went away on a brainstorming session and we came up with this bleeding-edge concept that will empower your viewers and move the needle on government TV ad standards.”

His beam at the room turned sour after a second of loud, unimpressed silence. Sansa’s eyes were narrowing dangerously now.

“I’m not sure I follow,” her voice rang out in the room and she tried to temper her tone with a sweet smile. “We agreed and signed off on the concept for AusPass before Christmas. I was under the impression we were viewing the finished product today.”

“And you are, Miss Stark.” He smiled at her tightly but it only made his face look mean. “Like I said, we have improved what you asked for. This version, _this_ is what’s going to sell the national single sign-on identity. Not some piss-weak ad about convenience and integration and families playing with our website. This is quality, award-winning stuff. Cutting edge. _Bleeding_ edge. It’s going to be the best damn government ad in the market Australia’s ever seen, and it’s going to be about Aussie Pass!”

“Mr Baratheon,” Sansa replied, fighting hard to keep her voice even. “It’s _AusPass_ , first of all. And this is a public service announcement, not a contender for the Effie Awards. The taxpaying public expects us to produce informative adverts that don’t look like we just frittered a Hollywood budget to produce — which, incidentally, _this does_.” Her eyes were glinting dangerously now. “Dare I ask,” she ventured in a low voice, “who paid for this ad to be produced?”

“No one did,” Joffrey replied, frowning. “You already approved the budget.”

“I approved the budget,” Sansa ground out between gritted teeth, “for the concept we signed off in _December_ , which was NOT this movie trailer. Are you actually telling me that you just changed the concept without so much as running a storyboard past me for approval before hiring a cast of thousands to produce _this_?”

Joffrey had the temerity to look over to Ramsay, who rolled his eyes and shrugged as if to say, _you can’t teach stupid_.  

Joffrey laughed slightly then, as if not quite believing his ears. 

“I really don’t understand what the issue is here. You either trust your Creative agency or you don’t.”

Sansa’s jaw dropped. “I either trust or I…” She shook her head, then pointed at the blank screen and yelped, “YOU JUST THREATENED THE AUSTRALIAN PUBLIC!” 

“I was killing two birds with one stone,” he explained as if to a child slow of learning. “Australians are anxious about illegal immigration, and they are anxious about Aussie Pass. This ad is brilliant because it addresses both issues! It’s almost like getting two ads for the price of one!”

“This advert was supposed to tell everyone how cool it will be to access their government services in the one online portal — and you just turned us into Big Brother and cheesed off every permanent resident! Do you know how many lobby groups are going to KILL US over this?”

“I seriously think you’re failing to understand the brilliance of the execution of this —“

“ _Let‘em In!_ is going to eat us for breakfast over what this says about asylum seekers…”

“You’re overreacting, Sansa. If you would just stop for a moment and—“

“The Australian Faithful Lobby — who already think we are the devil — are going to absolutely go to town on this. Likewise the Greens, likewise every Independent, including the fringe looney ones we don’t talk about…”

“Now, if you would stop being so emotional…”

“Don’t you DARE tell me I’m being emotional about this,” Sansa hissed right then, her blue eyes boring into Joffrey’s green ones that were finally starting to look concerned. “I can’t _believe_ you are two weeks late because you used up our budget to produce _this_!” A flashback at the muscly ranger as he whipped off his Raybans and spat out his toothpick to the scream of guitars… Sansa shuddered, even as her anger burned almost luminous. "I am _appalled_ , frankly. If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder whether you’re working for the Opposition because you sure just did their work for them. Make no mistake — this is a _horrible_ joke, and you are going to fix this. You will take this advert back, you will take out the storyboard we signed off on in December, and you will _FIX THIS_.”

“I’m going to need a new budget!” he whined. “I already went over with this one!"

“That is really not my problem,” replied Sansa tersely. She watched from the corner of her eye as her manager rose up from her seat stiffly and slipped out the backdoor of the conference room. _Oh shit. But not now. Don’t think about that now_.

“You have until the end of the week,” Sansa replied with a calm that was almost surreal, given the circumstances. She stood up with her notepad and stalked out the backdoor, only to run into her manager waiting outside.

“Sansa,” Catelyn Stark’s voice was low and fierce, “where is Petyr Baelish?”

* * *

 “What do you mean, he’s no longer our Account Manager? Are you telling me that young upstart in that room is our Account Manager now?”

Sansa shifted slightly in her chair, but she met her mother’s gaze bravely. “Yes.”

“What happened!”

“We had a change of Account Managers and they gave us… him.”

“Yes I can see that, but why! Where is Petyr!”

“I heard somewhere in Hong Kong.” Tyrion had texted a few weeks ago. She had asked for the change, she knew. But the fact they were now on completely separate continents as the natural consequence… that felt a lot like overkill. 

It made her miss him even more, which was the exact opposite of what she was hoping for. It was maddening.

“What is he doing there!”

“There’s a tycoon he handles, apparently. They needed him there.”

“Is there any way we can get him back?” But Sansa shrugged, as if it were completely out of her control. 

“This is very disappointing,” Catelyn pronounced, her lips thinning downward in marked disapproval. “Very disappointing of L&S. How can they just pull our Account Manager in the middle of a new campaign? And to replace Petyr with _that_?” 

“It’s their prerogative,” Sansa pointed out.

“Yes, but this boy is a joke. Petyr, at least, was very helpful to us and knew exactly what he was doing. I’m going to call the CEO of L&S now.”

Sansa sat forward, slightly alarmed. “Is that necessary?”

“I think so!” quipped Catelyn. “If you won’t, then I will. They’ll have to listen to me, surely. They can’t just pull their top Account Manager from an account like PM&C and expect us to be happy with this vapid boy.”

“Catelyn… I don’t know that L&S Management will be receptive… especially since Joffrey is Cersei Lannister’s son. This is _his_ family business. As far as they’re concerned, they HAVE just given us their top Account Manager. I even think he’s an owner!”

Catelyn looked appalled. “Well, that’s just not good enough!”

Mother and daughter stared at each other unhappily. 

“I’ll try and fix things,” Sansa said eventually. “We’re supposed to deal with Oberyn for the smaller jobs. Perhaps if I got him to manage Joffrey… Just, please,” added Sansa, beseeching her mother. “Don’t talk to Cersei yet. Let me handle this. I’ll try and find a way.”

“We’ll need to do this sooner rather than later,” Catelyn warned, not wholly appeased. She flicked her eyes over Sansa’s dress and added drily, “Call me old fashioned, but I don’t like these shapeless, loose-fitting dresses you young girls like so much these days. It’s too sloppy for the workplace. I think you look so much better in a well-tailored suit. Even a pencil skirt. So much smarter." 

And with that, she turned and left Sansa’s room.

* * *

Wan Chai. Thrumming, hectic, decaying, claustrophobic, shiny, intoxicating Lady Wan Chai. If Hong Kong could be captured in a bottle, her very essence would be bled from here. Things moved twice, sometimes thrice the speed of Sydney in Wan Chai. but it was here, in the old Carnegie's Bar, that life froze in time just a little.  

The good ol’ expatriate bar. Business had slowed right down since the Occupy protests, even with its decades old infamy of rebellious bar-top dancing and lovely loose ladies. It was still iconic, almost cornily so. The scandalous dancing, so last decade, continued as a matter of principle now. Tourists came through on their way to other bars just to say they had been. The regulars took their places every night as if rehearsing a play, self-mocking and patently aware of the fucking cliché and yet too attached and fond of the place to let go.

Petyr was here tonight, almost a regular now. He was back in the same spot and Lim the bartender was pouring him a Bourbon without him having to ask. The pale, willowy exotic that had been eyeing him all evening had finally sidled up and bought him that Bourbon. Her almond eyes, heavily lined, were heavy with suggestion. She laid a slender hand over his and her nails were long and lacquered blood-red. Her perfume wrapped his face like soft China silk when she leaned in to him, and when she whispered into his ear, her accent was neutral, almost atonal. She was clearly well-travelled yet common. A stewardess.  

He turned and smiled right back at her, raising his glass of Bourbon and taking a long sip.

“I’m sorry, gorgeous,” he drawled, and wet his lips with his tongue. “But I’m not available.”

“You have a lady back home?”

That was technically inaccurate, but it was a good enough approximation so he shrugged.

The vixen made a dramatic show of looking around the room, her long jet-black hair swishing gently behind her back like a stallion's tail. “She’s not here.”

“She is here.” And he pointed to his heart with a smirk.

The almond eyes narrowed with a smirk of its own. “I don’t want your _heart_ ,” she replied, and her long middle fingernail trailed small circles on the top of his hand.

He moved it away to hold his glass. “Thanks for the drink, love.” He raised the glass and quirked another smile before taking a longer, pointed sip. His mobile phone went off then and he pulled it out with his free hand. He looked at her as if to say, “I have to take this.” But she did not move, so he slipped off the bar stool and headed out to the cold.

“Tyrion,” he greeted warmly even as the cool wintry air settled on him like a light cloak, his neck goose-pimpling. “You’re up late."

“You started early,” his only friend in the world replied. “Are you sober enough to talk?”

“Sure,” Petyr deadpanned. “I’m not you.”

He heard Tyrion chuckle a little, but his tone soon turned serious again. “Have you heard?”

“Hard to ignore when it’s made international news. It’s on fucking YouTube,” replied Petyr drily. The smallest hesitation before he followed up with, “How are they taking it?”

Tyrion snorted. “Not well, as you can imagine. And can you blame them?”

“I’m guessing the bit about the Ad agency creating the TVC as a bad joke that wound up with WinTV by mistake… that’s just bullshit, right?” Petyr switched hands as he fumbled for a cigarette and a light. 

“And to which part do you refer?”

“All of it.” His voice was muffled as he struggled with the lighter, the cigarette balanced on his lips. It lit up finally and he blew his first drag into the starless night. “That wasn’t a joke, that was the real deal. That was Joff and his clowns. And that was no mix-up — it got leaked.”

Tyrion breathed out on the phone noisily. “Don't take this the wrong way, Baelish… but gods, I miss you.”

He shrugged to no one in particular. Tyrion was still there, and he was still here in Wan Chai. Clearly, no one else shared his short friend's sentiment.     

“How’s Varys taking it,” Petyr grinned. “Is he crying? His name taken in vain…”

“It was probably the first time I’ve heard our Creative Director drop an octave when he barrelled into Level Twelve today and ripped a new one in our young Joffrey. It was quite the spectacle. I think Olyvar has a video.”

The two men snorted but there was little mirth. It was a right mess. All of his hard work, gone just like that. It was heartbreaking, really. Such a beautiful contract.

“But that’s not the purpose of my call, not really,” Tyrion added.

“Oh?”

“I think you’re going to get a call soon. I’ve been approached on the quiet and I’ve given your number. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Who is it?”

But his second line was ringing now, right on cue. 

“Just give me a sec, short fuck.”

“Don’t bother. Take the call. I’ll see you soon anyway.” And then he was gone. 

Petyr cursed, but he swiped right anyway to answer.

“Petyr Baelish.”

“Hello?”

“Yes?”

“Is this Petyr? I’m sorry… this line isn’t very clear.”

“Yes, I’m Petyr. How may I help you?”

“Hello?

“Yes, who is this?” His irritation was starting to mount.

“It’s Catelyn Stark." 

* * *

The House of Lords was busy tonight. They were heading straight into February in mere days and Canberra was slowly coming back to life as school holidays ended and families returned from their idyll at the coast. 

He had checked in and then he had walked here on foot, almost out of habit. The number of times the team used to to duck over for quick drinks after work, and then the big show of him bidding everyone adieu early so he could head back on the road to Sydney, only to turn left at the end of the street, then the second right, and then the cul de sac. Sometimes they would meet in the elevator. Many times, they never made it to her bed.

Except this time she cut a lonely figure at the bar. The team was off somewhere else, but she was sitting on the very same barstool she'd perched on the first time he walked into the House of Lords and saw her across the room. The downlight above her still lit her hair aflame, the low warm colours casting shadows and softening her eyes so they looked smokier. 

But she was alone this time, no Margaery. Even from here, hunched over slightly as she was, he could see the slight swell of her abdomen. No one else would notice, really. But he had kissed and licked and nuzzled that passage from high cherry pips to sweet dewy tip. He had traversed her planes and studied the contours of her body —the swell of breast, the angles of her hips, that beautiful flat stomach before it dipped to that mysterious, delightful creamy centre.

He saw her now, the very beginnings of the roundness of her belly. And on the bar was her drink. A bright red cocktail, the umbrella discarded on the side.  

He was beside her before he knew it, and the words fell out before he could think to stop them.

“Should you be drinking?”

She turned to him, startled. And then her eyes narrowed. 

“It’s a Shirley Temple, for gods’ sake. Not that I owe you an explanation. _What are you doing here?_ ”

“Probably the same as what you’re doing here. Looking for a drink to unwind. Except maybe not a Shirley Temple.” He wrinkled his nose at the bright red. 

“No,” she lowered her voice and it sounded strained. “What are you doing _here_.”

He blinked slowly. “Didn’t Catelyn tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“I’ve come to replace Joffrey.”

The look on Sansa’s face said it all. No, Catelyn did not tell her.

“Well, that’s just perfect, isn’t it,” she snapped, and chucked the straw away before drinking straight from the glass. He watched as she downed half of it, slightly nervous it had a shot of vodka after all.

“You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry. You, going behind my back like that. This is low, even for you.”

“She called ME,” he protested, rather aggrieved. “Catelyn told me what happened, and arranged all of it. Called Cersei and somehow got Joffrey yanked from your account and insisted I take the reins again. Your mother,” he added more under his breath, “can be one persuasive woman."

“Well _of course_ she did,” snapped Sansa. “You’ve seen what she’s like, always undermining me. You didn’t have to listen to her. You could have stayed away in China or Hong Kong or wherever.”

“You’re in deep trouble. That leak is a PR nightmare.”  

“Don’t presume to tell me how to do my job. Of COURSE it’s a blooming PR nightmare! I was here when the poo hit the proverbial ceiling fan and I watched as it went _everywhere_. I’ve been cleaning it up since!”

“Well, I’m here to help you now.”

“Well, aren’t you the hero.”

He stared at her, at the downturned mouth, at the eyes still flashing in anger. Underneath it all, she was miserable. It was as plain to him as the nose on her face, the one he now yearned to reach over and brush with his lips except he was fairly sure that would only entice her to bite off his own.

“Sansa,” he treaded carefully, “I know we’re in a bad place personally. But this is work. Right now, we can’t afford to let our emotions get in the way of our professional working relationship.”

Absolutely the wrong thing to say right then, perhaps. On hindsight.

“Are you saying that’s what I did? That’s why Joffrey got made Account Manager? Are you saying it’s my fault we landed ourselves in this shithole in the first place?”

“Not at all,” he soothed, though his mind was on overdrive. This was Sansa like he had never seen — defensive, offensive, emotional, and unravelling just a teensy bit. He furrowed his eyebrows, unsure of what to say next.

“But that’s it, isn’t it. If I hadn’t been _unprofessional_ and kicked you out, then Cersei wouldn’t have given us Joffrey, and he wouldn’t… be him, and I wouldn’t be staring down the barrel as the Prime Minister is embarrassed by his own Ministry because the stupid girl in Marketing decided she didn’t want to work with the man who knocked her up!”

“Sansa!” His voice was low but urgent. “ _Joffrey was not your fault._ Not at all. No one in their right mind would appoint that psychotic fuckwit to run an egg-and-spoon race, let alone a national campaign. My money’s on Cersei doing this to get back at me for punching Joff in that fight on the ship, actually.”

“Just stop it, Petyr. Right now. This. Whatever you’re doing.”

“What am I doing!”

“Being nice. Being perfectly reasonable. Pretending that all is fine between us.”

He grabbed her wrists then. Gods, he wanted to grab her shoulders and shake and shake and shake until her teeth rattled. And then he wanted to kiss her, deeply. And cradle her in his arms and rock her to a calm. 

“Sansa,” he hissed instead, his eyes boring into hers in the hopes he could drill the truth into her beautiful thick skull. “All is _not_ well. All is _not_ fine between us. Are you _kidding?_ I’ve been a mess for a month. I get sidelined to fucking _Hong Kong_ to babysit a self-sabotaging golf-mad mogul and watch my toenails grow. Do not, for a second, think this isn’t hard for me too.”

“You always did know how to make it all about you.” And Sansa wrenched away her wrists as she slipped off the bar stool. She tossed a tenner on the bar next to her unfinished mocktail before stalking off in the direction of the exits near the toilets.

Petyr sat there, slightly shellshocked. _What the hell just happened there?_  She wasn’t drunk, not on sickly-sweet grenadine and ginger ale. He searched through her answers, replayed the to-and-fro. The aftermath of TVC-gate must have been a lot worse on ground zero than what he’d imagined it to be, three time zones away. She was upset, well and truly. She looked more beautiful than ever, but her soul, her spirit felt like it was barely holding together with sticky-tape.

He knew he had promised to leave her alone. If he chased after her now into the open, there’s every chance she’d scream at him proper once they were out of earshot.

And yet she clearly needed someone. She shouldn't be alone. He needed her to know she was not alone. 

“Aw fuck,” he mumbled as he slid off the stool and made his way after her.

* * *

He heard her before he saw her, the pitch in her voice unnaturally high. Something in that made him press himself against the stack of wooden pallets, just out of sight. 

Then he heard their voices and froze. The nasal whine was bad enough. _Joffrey, the skinny prick._ But when he heard Ramsay's voice, he tensed, every cell in him now on high alert.

He slid his phone out and turned on the recording app.

"I'm out of a job now, Miss Stark. Do you know? My mother hates you, and my mother hates your mother."

"That is not my fault, Joffrey. You never should have leaked that awful ad."

"You keep saying that, bitch. And I keep telling you I never did. Blaming L&S for something we never did, to the press, to everyone... now that's libel. We've got friends everywhere. What are you? We are global. You're just local," he sneered. "Australian government."

"You're lying," she hissed, which was probably not wise even if accurate, Petyr thought. " _Of course_ you leaked it. Who else would have the tape!"

Ramsay cleared his throat. "I do!" he chirped cheerfully, and let out a jackal of a laugh. "Oh your _face_ ," he cried. 

"You did not!"

"But I did!"

"But why!" Sansa cried, bewildered. 

"For shits and giggles," giggled Ramsay. The distance had changed, his voice sounding closer. Petyr squinted. It was dark, but he was just able to make out their forms through the gaps within the pallets. Ramsay had stepped right up to Sansa now. To her credit, she was standing boldly in his face, not shrinking back. 

"For shits and giggles," he repeated himself. It was soft, but the clear night air carried his voice and chilled Petyr. 

"You needed to be taught a lesson, you bitch, you whore... you fucking, pregnant whore." He reached out and stroked the side of Sansa's face. She grabbed his wrist on reflex to pull him away, but his other hand grabbed a fistful of hair suddenly and yanked hard so she cried out.

Petyr was by her side in a flash, twisting the cunt's arm so he released his hold. He shoved Ramsay hard so he stumbled back and with his own body, he stepped forward and shielded her. Shielded _them_ , the mother and the babe.

"If it isn't the Man of the Hour himself!" sneered Joffrey. "Come back to take my job. By special request of Lady Catelyn Stark. Or maybe her daughter." Both men appraised Petyr's stance in amusement, the way he stood in front of her, arms outstretched like an eagle protecting its young. Eyes alert and unblinking. 

It was a shit position to be in. They were both trapped, essentially, with nothing but a wall behind them. The back door to the bar only opened one way, and the motherfuckers were closing in on them slowly, cutting off access to the street. He could probably handle them, but he could not account for what they would do to Sansa meanwhile. His eyes never left them as he edged backwards, slowly moving so both Sansa and he could pivot ever so discreetly towards the street.

"You talk about libel" he drawled. "But who says she's pregnant?"

"The whole godsdamn office," scoffed Ramsay. "Did you think we wouldn't notice, princess? The way you disappear sometimes in mid-meetings? The fact that your calendar is always blocked out from three in the afternoon? You're getting pale and pudgy," he grinned, his teeth bared. "Have you noticed that, Baelish? You've been away. You know how you can go away for a while and when you come back and you see someone, it's like 'WHOA she's put on weight'?"

"I haven't noticed," Petyr replied benignly. _Step. Step._

 "Sure you have," Ramsay replied mildly. "Aren't you the baby daddy?"

"Now you're just taking wild stabs in the dark."

"Like you did?" Ramsay grinned. "Did you poke her, Baelish? Did you pop her cherry and then eat her? I don't blame you. She's frigid, but she's beautiful. Role-playing must be fun. She your mistress in bed too? Or do you give the orders, for a change?"

"Oh Peeetyr," whimpered Joffrey. "Oh harder, harder! Oh Peeetyr, talk to me about market penetration!"

"Oooohhh Peeeetyr," joined in Ramsay. "Ohhh Petyr, your cock is so old and so small but it's okay, I'm tight anyway!" 

"YOU ASSHOLES!" spat Sansa, but he reached back and tapped her lightly on the hip to reassure. _Steady on_ , he tried to tell her. _Let them talk. Let them not see._

"Awww look at them," cooed Ramsay, tilting his chin at the gesture. "How sweet. One happy family unit. The father, the son, and the Holier Than Thou." And then he stepped closer, the menace in his eyes now intended solely for him.

" _You're_ the asshole, Baelish. You steal the woman, you steal the job... You're nothing but a parasite."

"And what do we do with parasites?" sing-songed Joffrey.

_Step. Step._

"Come now, gentlemen," Petyr reasoned cordially. "Your quarrel is with me. But the lady here, let's leave her out of it, eh? Just let her get back to her friends."

"Like fuck I will," snarled Ramsay. "The moment we're done with you, I'm getting a taste of that cherry I missed. And I'll make you watch, too."

He had got them halfway, but she would need more time to make a clean break for it. He needed to be sure she could get it.

"Sansa," he hissed. "Run. Now." 

He felt her slip away behind him as he threw his full weight into Ramsay's stomach, tackling him into the ground. A blow to his side, as Joffrey started kicking him but Joffrey was no fighter, and Petyr had learned how to fight eventually, although that was years ago. He pulled Ramsay's body off the ground to fend off another misdirected foot before swinging his own legs to cut Joffrey's from under him.

"OWWW!" Joffrey yelled plaintively as his skinny ass landed on the cobblestone, but Ramsay was up now and he was pissed. 

"I'M GONNA KILL YOU!" he snarled. He lunged, swinging and missing as Petyr stepped easily aside. Ramsay stumbled but before he could recover, Petyr slammed him into the wall. 

_No, I'm going to kill_ you _,_  Petyr thought, and then he was burying punches into him. Every slam into that weasel's gut was like a release, a rush. _The fucker, the fucker, the raping sick cunting fucker..._

"Joff!" Ramsay gasped. "Help!"

"Help's here!" he heard Joffrey crow, whereupon a shadow eclipsed the two men suddenly. Petyr turned to find the fucking biggest specimen of human wall he'd ever laid eyes on.

"Baelish!" yelled Joffrey, now nasally and delighted. "Meet my new friend, The Mountain."

_Aw fuck._


	21. Chapter 21

He was sleeping when she was finally allowed in the room. She watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest, his jaw slack in deep sleep. He couldn’t be wholly comfortable, not while sleeping almost upright like that. The top of his sleeping gown was laid lightly on him, almost in a token effort to dress him. It hid the worst of his injuries, she knew. 

She remembered the way he had looked on the ground, crumpled like a rag doll. She remembered the horrible dark red seeping through his light blue shirt, the gash dividing his chest, so visible even in the dim of the night. 

She had thought then she was too late.  

Thank gods. _Thank gods_ they were at the House of Lords, not a block away from the Australian Commonwealth Police. She had shouted at the group of them, still in uniform, just walking down the street from the entrance of _Lords_ — “They’re killing him!” It was the quickest way of getting their attention, she had thought. Of getting them to follow her, to run. 

She hadn’t expected, sprinting back down the alley, to find that beastly hulk of a man. She hadn’t expected her words to actually ring true. 

Even they had ground to a halt, momentarily stumped by the size of him. It was only when she had screamed and jammed the hell out of her travel hairspray that they had snapped out of their stupor. The hulk had stumbled, caught unawares and blinded. Joffrey and Ramsay were nowhere to be found, of course. They had fled as soon as they could. 

If only she'd remembered her hairspray from the first, even before Petyr had appeared. If only she hadn’t stalked off through the back door. If only she hadn’t lost her temper. If only she had swallowed her pride, secretly glad that she was to see a friendly face. Even if that friendly face still broke her heart. 

But she hadn't, and Petyr had lain on the ground, broken and crumpled and bloody. His life spilling out on his chest. So much of it. _She thought he was dead._

But he wasn’t. He was still here. She sank into the seat beside him slowly. He did not stir when she started to cry, her mouth gaping in silent anguish and horror, her head dropping so low it touched his bed. 

* * *

She slipped in at nine o’clock and made a beeline straight for her office at the back of the building. No eye contact made, no usual morning greeting, head down and barreling through, the sound of her heels rhythmic as she brisk-walked to her door. The entire floor had stopped as soon as she'd entered it, but she ignored the pregnant silence until she turned her key in the lock and slipped into her room.

She left the blinds down. The computer whirred as it came to life. Her phone pinged as she waited, and she finally checked her emails.

 

> **Priority** : High 
> 
> **Subject** : Come to my office when you get in 
> 
>   
> I need to talk to you about last night. It cannot wait. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Catelyn Stark  
>  Executive Director, Public Affairs and Engagement Division   
>  Ministry of Prime Minister and Cabinet _

* * *

“Close the door, Sansa.”  

Her blinds were down too and the moment the door clicked shut, Catelyn gathered her daughter to herself and hugged her fiercely. 

“Are you okay?” Catelyn cradled her daughter’s face in her hands, checking for trauma, for injuries, for clues.  

“I’m alright, Mum. I am.” 

“What happened!” she cried. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of things. I couldn’t believe it when they told me. And your phone was off…” 

“I’m sorry, Mum. My battery had gone flat and I was at the hospital.” 

“Even this morning?” Catelyn asked, her eyes narrowing. “I didn’t hear anything until this morning. My heart fell to my stomach, girl. And your father!” Catelyn's eyes went heavenward. " _Please_ don’t do this to us again! You don’t know how a mother worries.” 

_But I’m about to find out_ , she wanted to say. The words stuck in her throat, however.  

“And why were you in the hospital? Are you hurt?” Sansa shook her head and let her mother lead her to the couches.  

“Please tell me what’s going on.” 

Sansa took a deep breath and sighed. “It won’t take long, really. I was at the House of Lords last night, and left through the back door near the ladies. I go out that way all the time because it’s a shortcut to our building… except last night, Joffrey and Ramsay were out there having a smoke. And… well…” she hesitated. This was the part that was difficult to explain. To relive.  

“Well?” 

“They were drunk, I think… and… they were unhappy with me.” 

“Unhappy with you?” 

“Well, Joffrey was unhappy because of the fallout from the leak of that ad to the media. He still claims he didn’t do it… and he was right, it turns out.” 

“What do you mean!” 

“It was Ramsay,” Sansa replied grimly. “He told me himself last night." 

“Ramsay? _Bolton? Our_ Ramsay?” 

“I’m guessing Joffrey had passed him the file, and Ramsay had leaked it to the press.” 

“But… why!” 

_For shits and giggles_ , she heard his maniacal voice say. _You needed to be taught a lesson, you bitch, you whore, you fucking pregnant whore..._

“He wanted to make us look bad.” She breathed. “He wanted to make _me_ look bad.” 

“You?” 

“He doesn’t like me, Mum.” Or he liked me too much. But how was she ever going to admit that to her mother? 

“And then what happened?” 

“Uh… well… Petyr Baelish came out the back door and he intervened.” 

“Yes. I heard there was a fight.” Catelyn’s eyes widened in understanding. “Was that why you were in the hospital?” 

“Yes.”  

“Is he alright?" And it took all of Sansa’s self-control not to choke out her reply. 

“No,” she managed. The word was soft and breathless. “But he’s alive.” 

Catelyn’s mouth fell open. “That bad!” 

“There was a third man, towards the end. He was huge. Like he played rugger… except even bigger. He was immense… and Petyr…” 

“He defended you.” 

“That giant wasn’t there at the start, but when I managed to run away because Petyr distracted the boys… when I came back with the police, he was there and Petyr was on the ground, and there was blood, and he was unconscious…” 

Catelyn’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my gods!” And then shook her head. “I don’t understand why, though! Were they that drunk that they needed to fight?” 

Sansa twisted the hem of her skirt. This needed to be said, she knew. But admitting as much was almost as horrible as hearing the threat the very first time. 

“Ramsay…” she started slowly, and she stared at her mother, willing her to understand the words within the words. “Ramsay _threatened_ me. He threatened to… assault me. The way a man can to a woman.” 

A sharp intake of breath. “Oh Sansa!” And then tears sprang from her mother’s eyes.  “No…” And then another realisation. “What if you had been alone! What if Petyr had not come out that back door when he did!” 

_I know. And oh yes, he’s the father of my child. Ramsay was especially angry about that._ But the words would not come. _Cowardly, cowardly girl._

But now her mother was pulling her close, her embrace tight and fierce. “I’m so glad you’re okay, I’m so glad you’re alright,” she murmured over and over. “Oh my darling girl…” And Sansa hugged her mother tight, the tears finally prickling her eyes again. _Let her think I’m crying for me. But I’m not._

“We need to go to the police,” Catelyn Stark pronounced with deadly purpose, and Sansa agreed.  

“Don’t worry, I most definitely will.” 

“And you’ll need to file a report. I’m taking this up to HR. This is a Code of Conduct violation and a breach of the Sex Discrimination Act. I’ll see that this little shit will get the sack, Roose Bolton be damned.” 

“Mum!” And Sansa cracked a smile. “ _Language,_ Mum,” she teased and was rewarded when Catelyn cracked a grim smile.  

“Do you need some time off?” And Sansa mulled over the idea. It was a good one. 

“I’ll file the report first,” she replied. “I’ll see what jobs are urgent and once I’ve squared that away, I just might, if that’s alright.” 

“I want you to see a counsellor, Sansa. Don’t fight me on this,” Catelyn added when Sansa opened her mouth. “You’ve been through something significant. I think calling the counsellors is the least I can do as your manager. I would be remiss if I didn’t insist, Sansa. So do it. Please. 

“And then we’ll see to it that Ramsay never gets a job in the public service ever again. Or anywhere, for that matter. And as for Petyr,” Catelyn paused, her eyes softening now. “I was wrong about him. He’s a true gentleman. I have to find a way to thank him for protecting my girl.” 

Sansa opened her mouth once more, even as her hand reflexively covered her belly. She opened her mouth but the words wouldn’t form. 

* * *

Ros had just only found his room when Tyrion arrived. The pain was hard to ignore, but Petyr still cracked a smile for the both of them, thankful and touched. 

Tyrion gestured to Petyr’s body, his right arm in a sling, the long dressing snaking down the length of him from collarbone to navel. And with a touch of wry, “You always were an attention-seeking fucker.” 

It was such a ludicrous statement that Petyr laughed and then winced almost immediately, the sharp pain robbing his breath. 

“I’m sorry,” muttered his friend. “I shouldn’t make you laugh.” 

Both Ros and Tyrion exchanged pleasantries. 

“Thank you for coming, short fuck.” 

“Got me out of the office, didn’t it?” But then Tyrion lowered his voice. “I would’ve come sooner, but the little old lady in me wanted the gossip. Are you pressing charges?” 

“I will be,” Petyr promised.  

“Cersei's already planning to counter-sue. Or something.”  

Petyr’s eyebrows shot up. “On what grounds!” It was ridiculous. 

“Joffrey’s bruised ego, I’m guessing. She’ll make something up. You know my sister. She’s creative when she’s evil. It’s probably the only time she’s creative. On client briefs, she’s fucking dull otherwise. Ironic, isn’t it.”  

Petyr groaned. “I wish I had my phone,” he sighed, frustrated. “I think I lost it in the fight. Must have fallen out of my pocket. They didn’t take it with me in the ambulance.” Another thought. “Who was that fucking man-mountain!” 

“Ah," Tyrion replied, eyes flashing with intrigue. “Joffrey’s new bodyguard. Cersei had just engaged his services that week.” 

“A bodyguard? For fucking-quiet  _Canberra?_  Bloody hell,” breathed Petyr. “ Had I known…” 

Had he known, he might have tried something different. But then again, there was no fucking way in hell he would have deserted Sansa. They didn’t have any options. The outcome would have been the same.     

Ros was holding his hand now. “Hey,” she called softly. “You’re still a handsome devil.” 

“I’d jump you right now, but the sling isn’t great for that sort of thing,” he joked weakly. As if punishing him for even suggesting it, his chest squealed in pain again. He gritted his teeth as he rode out the nerve-jarring agony. 

“Speaking of jumping…” Ros added slowly. Her eyes darted over to Tyrion and she hesitated. 

“He knows about Sansa.” 

“All of it?” 

Petyr nodded. 

Ros breathed. “Word is getting around, Petyr. Is Sansa really pregnant?” 

“Yes.” 

“And it’s yours?” 

“Yes.” At least, he had always assumed so. Sansa would never have slept with someone else. Not her. She was loyal, even in a non-relationship relationship. _He_ was the dip-shit. Not she. 

Ros huffed. “Seriously?” She sounded exasperated. “If you weren’t looking like you’re at death’s door, I might smack you!” 

“I thought you just said I’m still handsome!” 

“Well yeah? I lied. You look like shit. Sansa Stark? Really? That woman is amazing. She deserves better than you.” 

Petyr couldn’t agree more. 

“Is everyone in the office really talking about it?” He remembered Ramsay’s words. 

“Some of us were wondering, but it wasn’t like we were actively looking for the signs. Except fucking Ramsay would come and point things out, you know? ‘Going to the bathroom again, Sansa? Looking a bit green!’ That sort of thing. Even if she wasn’t pregnant, the way Ramsay was carrying on, rumours were bound to get started. But as it turns out, this one is true.” Ros sighed, and settled down on the bed beside him. 

“I’m sorry,” Petyr muttered.  

“About what?” 

“I… don’t know.” About disappointing his friends. About being a dip-shit. About being a man-slut, perhaps. He was sitting in a hospital with his chest newly sewn back together. He wasn’t feeling like the top dog. Just a dog. 

Ros, the closest thing to a fuck-buddy he had, except it had always been more about fucking than friendship. Had he always been so callous with women? He wondered now.  

“I’m sorry if you’ve ever felt you got the raw end of the stick with me. I’ve been a shit friend, I know.” 

Tyrion cleared his throat, his eyes darting towards the door as if contemplating whether he should step outside. 

“Don’t be daft, Petyr,” Ros snorted. “You know it was never like that between us. I _liked_ the raw end of your stick!” 

Tyrion coughed softly then. “Should I step outside?” 

“You don’t have to,” replied Ros airily. She turned her gaze back to Petyr. “Now. Sansa on the other hand… Now that the cat is out of the bag — and it is, after that fight… Are the both of you secretly together?” 

“It’s complicated,” Tyrion supplied when Petyr fell silent, his breathing shallow. 

“I thought as much,” Ros replied. She placed her hand on Petyr’s and squeezed. “You’re not half the jackass you pretend to be, you know. Just knock off the asshole act. She’ll come around.” 

_I’m not sure she will,_ Petyr replied in his head. But to Ros, he only smiled wanly.  

“In other news,” Tyrion added brightly. “Cersei is trying to sack you. But she’s seeking advice from Legal on whether she’s in breach of unlawful termination if she does. Now, _I’m_ trying to get you a severance package in the 50-50 chance that she gets her way and kicks you out. But of course, the words, ‘Over, body, cunting, my, dead!’ are likely to be used by my sister in some particular order. But I’m working on it.  

"Question is,” summarised Tyrion, "do _you_ want to stick around to possibly get a windfall of go-away money or — much worse — get the sack with no references from the CEO? That’s something else to decide, my dear boy. _So_ sorry to saddle this on you today.” 

* * *

He was chasing the rice around the plate now, the spoon in his left hand half empty as he tried — and failed — to get a sizeable mouthful’s worth. The food was rubbish anyway, as hospital food always was. What he would kill for some choice sashimi now, he thought wistfully. 

Sansa entered the room then. They locked eyes, and she gave a small smile. She held up The Economist, National Geographic, and The Monthly. 

“Thanks!” His smile was genuine. He watched as she placed them on the overbed table, belatedly remembering the other magazines already there. 

“Tyrion was here in the afternoon,” Petyr explained hastily, as Sansa eyed the stack of gay porn. He felt a small flood of relief burst inside of him when she cracked a smile.  

“Idiot,” she replied softly in reference to his short friend. Or maybe he was now her friend, too. That would certainly be a first among the women he dated, Petyr realised somewhere in the corner of his mind. 

On her now, he marshalled the entirety of his focus. He watched as she dropped her bag on the floor tiredly, before easing into the chair beside him. They eyed each other wordlessly. 

“Thank you,” he said softly. He longed to touch her skin, hold her hand. But she was so far away, so he settled for staring into her lovely, tired face. Hoping she could read his eyes. 

“I want to thank _you_ ,” she replied.  

“Nothing to thank me for,” he insisted. “But I owe you my life, I’m sure of it.” 

“I’m happy to call it a truce,” she returned. _On this matter, anyway._ The words never fell from her lips, but they both heard the sentiment all the same. 

“Oh!” she piped up suddenly, and he watched as she rummaged into her bag. His eyes and heart lit up when she produced a most precious contraption. 

“Sorry I didn’t bring it earlier,” she apologised as she handed him his phone. “But I wanted to find a charger before I brought it to you. It’s fully charged now.” 

He could kiss her. He could kiss for many things, but now he really, really wanted to kiss her. _Lifesaver. Quick thinker. Observant, irreplaceable woman._

A knock on the door, and a uniformed man popped his head in. “Mr Baelish?” he asked. “I’m Officer Tarly. I’d like to take your statement now, if that’s alright?” 

Sansa stood up. “He just took my statement,” she informed Petyr, smiling at Tarly. She turned back to him. “I left _nothing_ out.” He noticed the way her hand rested on her belly. It still looked a little like she had too much dinner.  

“Officer Tarly.” He offered the one chair beside his bed. Sansa was about to step out the door, but Petyr motioned for her to stay.  

“Before I give my statement, I have something that all of us should hear. It will go in some way to explain the events of last night.”  

Petyr watched as Officer Tarly thought about it. “I’ll allow the listening part. But then Miss Stark will have to leave the room while I take your separate statement.” 

“Agreed.” 

He waited until Sansa was comfortable. She took her place beside his bed, in between the Officer and him. He found the audio file and started it from the beginning. 

Disappointingly, the initial bits were garbled. Bits of dialogue were missing, the odd word caught only when voices were raised. But after Ramsay had yanked Sansa’s hair, things became significantly clearer. 

He listened with morbid fascination as the events of the evening replayed itself. When Ramsay threatened Sansa, his eyes darted to her and she to him. Both of them tense, both of them still angry. 

But then they were moving to the bit now after Sansa had gotten away. He watched her listen as he pummelled Ramsay’s body. And then Joffrey’s bodyguard appeared, and he watched as her eyes widened with the sound of each blow on his own body, each groan until he fell to the ground. The sound of Ramsay and Joffrey chanting in the background — “Kill him! Kill that old fucker!” 

He had forgotten that bit entirely. Or perhaps he never heard it. When Sansa turned to look at him, there were tears brimming in her eyes.   

* * *

She came in the days after that. Once in the morning, but mostly after work in the evenings. One time, even Catelyn had come along although she didn't stay for long, only to give her thanks and well wishes. Sansa had left with her mother that evening, and he had missed her silence.

They never said very much to each other otherwise. She would watch as he fed himself. She never offered to help him and he didn’t ask. He needed to learn how to do this alone, after all.

On the last evening before he knew the hospital was talking about discharging him, she finally broke her silence.  

“How’s your bung knee?”   

“I believe the technical description is it’s still fucked,” he replied wryly. “But thanks for asking.” 

“You need crutches. But you can’t use them.” 

“Yes.” 

“Because of your collarbone. And then, of course, there’s your large wound and your ribs. Petyr,” she hesitated, “what are your plans from tomorrow?” 

“I’ll make my way back home.” 

“In Surry Hills? Your home is riddled with stairs. Can’t you stay with friends?” 

“Tyrion and Shae have a newborn. I can’t do that to them.” _And they also live in a narrow three-storey townhouse._

“Anyone else? Family? Other friends?” Her eyebrows were knitting together in concern. As much as he would have liked to ease her concerns, he knew he was in a bind. There was no family, none. He knew Sansa suspected as much now. Even Ros, situated here, was in a shared home. 

“I’ll be fine,” he lied. His contingency had been to stay in a hotel while he tried to rent an apartment with lift access in Sydney for the short term. But first, he would have to make his way back from Canberra. He couldn’t drive. He would have to make arrangements for his car. Life was bloody inconvenient without the use of your dominant arm and one leg, and the ability to breathe without tearing in pain. He hadn’t yet figured out how to care for his wound on his own. Let alone the physio exercises they were teaching him today. 

“Well, I’ve decided,” Sansa’s voice was quiet and her tone brooked no argument. “You are coming back home with me." 


	22. Chapter 22

They had said very little to each other, even while she was driving. Usually he’d have a wisecrack about how law-abiding she was. “Look at you,” he’d tease, tilting his impeccably manscaped chin towards her dash. “Cruise controlled at _exactly_ sixty. Not even a kilometre over the speed limit. Model citizen.” And then he’d run a stray finger far too near her clit, just to get a reaction. 

But Petyr was quiet today, all his energies now channelled towards the groans he tried to stifle. Each silent wince pierced Sansa’s senses more than any yell of pain ever could. 

Yet they had carried on, brisk and almost professional. Somehow, she had managed to get the rented wheelchair opened and closed correctly on the first try. Somehow it had managed to fit in her boot — her car, by far, the more practical of the two. His DB9 was a coupé with a ridiculous boot space. Pretty to look at, sure. But low to the ground and absolutely shite when it came to handicapped passengers. And drivers. 

_You are fucking insane,_ her mind would scream more frequently than she’d care to admit. But then they’d take the lift up to her apartment and she’d think about his long flights of stairs and his winding, floating steps leading to his bedroom in his posh Surry Hills palace. _No,_ she’d remember. _This is sensible._   

_Just asking for trouble,_ her heart would scold.  But then she’d catch the way he’d have to remind himself to breathe deeply — almost feel how every cough and jerk brought him a fresh jab of pain. His chest had been carved, in part because of her.  _No,_ her own chest would squeeze. _This is right._

But to gaze into his eyes with warmth, to smile... that was a bridge too far.

* * *

“You’re sleeping here,” she gestured to the soft-grey sofa bed in her living room, now assembled as a double bed, linen already laid. The backrest with its button tufting now made an elegant headboard, and she hoped it was high enough to suit Petyr’s needs during the course of his stay. If the past week in hospital was anything to go by, he was going to sleep while sitting upright here too. 

As a test, she had tried it herself last night on this very bed, sleeping upright. It was manageable, she supposed — not great. She had awoken this morning a little worse for wear, although, she reasoned, at least he was still on medical leave. He had time in the day to heal and catch up on lost sleep.  

She watched as he locked the wheelchair and then tried to pull himself to standing. Such awkwardness — whether it was his bung knee twinging, or his collarbone that shrieked in protest, or his newly stapled skin drawn taut anew, or his ribs splintering his mind with anguish so much so, it stole his breath... nothing, no movement, did not invite pain. It took all of his willpower not to call out, this proud, elegant man now slightly dishevelled, gaunt and pale... and older.

She hardly knew how to help him, how to touch him, to hold him. But she came to him nonetheless and he gingerly held on to her, but only out of necessity. She grounded herself like a tree in her living room so she could be strong enough for him. Her eyes remained impassive, veiling the growing alarm blooming like a gunshot wound within. _What had she done? She was no nursemaid. And he was still in such agony, even on pain meds._

He landed heavily on the bed, and a part of her prayed desperately once more that she could end this misery for him. _I wish I could bear some of it..._ But instead, the words out of her mouth were clinical, cool.

“I hope this will do,” she heard a stranger with her voice say, “You’ll stay here until your knee heals enough for you to manage the stairs in your house. And then you will leave.”

He only managed to nod in agreement, the rest of his spirit consumed by present pain.

* * *

There were plenty of instructions. Some of them were printed guides on wound care and what-to-expect. Some of them had to do with paperwork and insurance.  Some on medication. Sansa busied herself by filing them all in a clear binder, and reading the guides for the umpteenth time. They had seemed so comprehensive in the hospital, but now that they were back in her house and alone, she wished she had taken more notes. Bloody filmed the nurses while they explained. Anything. More, just to fill in the screaming void of doubt.

She watched as he took the sling off and tried to shrug out of his shirt.  

“Here,” she murmured, coming to him instantly. “Let me help you.” 

“Sansa,” he replied softly. “I’m going… to take a shower.” 

“I know,” she replied quietly. “Let me help you.” 

He paused, undecided. 

“You can’t stretch much and you’ll need help getting there and back. It’s not like you can hop or anything. And the floor is going to be wet.” 

He still looked unconvinced. 

“Petyr,” Sansa pressed, a little exasperated. “Are you… concerned about being naked in the shower with me?” 

“A little… yeah.” 

She rolled her eyes, and perhaps for the first time that evening, both of them cracked a small smile. 

“I think that ship has sailed, Petyr.” Her eyes hardened slightly. “And it’s not like we’ll be having shower sex anytime soon.” _Or at all._ But the words hung heavy in the air, like mist after a hot shower. 

She saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes before he glanced away and she bit the inside of her cheek, suddenly feeling like she had just kicked a small animal with a pointed shoe. 

“Here,” she murmured. “Come on.” She eased the shirt off his back, his arms. Undid his buckle deftly and slid his pants down, helping him step out of the legs. Then with a sharp inhale, she briskly slipped her fingers beneath the elastic and pulled his boxers down. 

Usually, by then, he’d be in a state of rigid, unquestioning attention, his head swollen and bobbing in agreeable excitement. But today, as if her words had robbed the wind from his sails, his cock hung low and timid, barely aroused. 

She didn’t know if she felt relief or disappointment. Or sadness.  

But they were moving on now to her bathroom. She sat him on the stool, took the shower head down and turned the water on low so the pressure on his body was gentle and kind. Their eyes never met as her hands roamed his back, as her fingers massaged his scalp. She looked away when he started to clean his most private places. Seated on her stool, her standing over him… somehow his body looked so much smaller now. Almost defeated, in pain, and vulnerable. But she pushed on, willing herself not to dwell on such thoughts. They finished quickly and she helped him dress his wound, his quiet instructions guiding her.  

He opted to sleep shirtless tonight, as was his usual way in Summer, and she watched as he took his pain medication. She realised that he had stronger pain meds he had simply opted not to take earlier.  

“They make me dopey,” he explained. “I don’t like to be dopey when I need to be awake.” 

“But they numb your pain, Petyr.” 

He smiled then, and she thought it looked almost sardonic. She couldn’t move when he lifted a finger and curled a lock of hair around her ear. “Oh Sweetling,” he replied, “nothing much does anymore."  

* * *

She woke up with a start, snatches of dream fading quickly. She had slept fitfully, but as she pricked her ears to listen, it appeared that her houseguest did as well.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she mumbled as her eyes adjusted to the dark. Petyr was standing in her kitchen now, leaning on the kitchen bench for support.  

“No,” he replied quietly. 

“Uncomfortable?” 

He nodded, but added hastily. “It’s got nothing to do with your hospitality. Just that the most comfortable position for my ribs, ironically, is standing. Which kills my knee but hey, everyone gets to have a turn.”  

The sky was just barely starting to lighten behind her roman blinds. She checked the clock on her wall — half past four. 

“Why are you up?” he asked, curious.  

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I was asleep… then I wasn’t.”  

“Hope I didn’t wake you. I tried to be quiet.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t,” she reassured although she couldn’t be sure if that were the truth. On some subliminal level, she knew his pain played on her mind. As long as he was uncomfortable, she didn’t think she could be. 

“Are you back at work today?” 

“Yes,” she replied, then quirked a smile. “My mental health day is over.” 

“Sorry?”  

“My mum had made me see a counsellor after I told her about Ramsay. I had told her I’d take some time off to recover from the trauma of the fight. And so I did. Yesterday.” 

“Right…” She heard the slight smile in his voice. “I don’t know that Catelyn will appreciate how you spend your mental health days. Taking in stray men and all.” 

“Man. Just one. You’re a stray, alright.” 

She poured them each a glass of cold water and they drank thirstily.   

“Thank you,” he said again. “I know this isn’t easy for you.” 

“I know this isn’t easy for you either.” 

* * *

“What the hell, Petyr!” 

He sighed. His knee was throbbing again, and he still wasn’t used to her kitchen. _Should have taken the coaster out before moving the pan_ , he berated himself. But that was the thing about having only one working limb at a time. Tasks, movements one had long taken for granted, sequences of breakfast-making one had long perfected now fell utterly short in a foreign kitchen when one is operating with one's shittier hand. 

“What are you doing!” 

“Making breakfast.” He tried not to sound sulky and failed utterly in that regard too. 

“I know you’re making breakfast!” she snapped. “Why!” 

_I wanted to do something thoughtful for you._ “I got hungry.” 

“Then grab some cereal!” Her eyes narrowed as he made a face. “Oh don’t be such a snob!” 

“What is an almost thirty-year-old doing with Coco Pops!” 

“What is a beat-up geriatric like you doing in my kitchen! Don’t you get that you’re injured? Get out! Get back in bed!” 

“I cracked two eggs single-handedly,” he defended valiantly, “with my fucking _left hand_. I’m not an invalid. I’m Jamie Fucking Oliver.” 

“No you’re not. You’re just a stubborn little boy. Get out of there!" 

He sighed again, but she was right. His knee was killing him. And one of those said eggs was sadly lying on her kitchen floor now, sunny-side down. Fucking wasted effort. 

“You win,” he sighed, putting his left hand up in surrender before he hobbled past her, using the bench for leverage. “Also,” he added sheepishly, “there’s an egg on the floor now. Sorry.” 

She rolled her eyes, but he thought he saw her suppress a smile as she got on her knees and started wiping up. 

When she stood up finally, he couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath that he hastily hid by pretending to cough, which of course then fucking _hurt_. Perhaps it was her clothing, or the angle, or her proximity… the length of her endlessly slim torso had always managed to hide it well. Until today. 

For this morning, her belly had finally popped. There was no denying it now. Sansa looked pregnant. 

* * *

He was just drifting off to sleep when he heard the lock in the front door turn. Sansa kicked open the door with the ball of her heel before pushing the rest of her way in with her shoulder, bags of groceries in her hands.

“Point taken,” she started without preamble, fishing out an assortment of food items. “I’ve bought some homemade dinners you can heat up by microwave… here’s some fruit… some vegetables… sultana bran cereal… yoghurt… “ She held each item up briefly before turning to stow them away in her fridge and cupboards. 

“You don’t have to do this… I could have sorted out my own lunch.” 

“Precisely what I was afraid of, which is why I’m home.” He startled at the word, before berating himself silently. _Idiot. This is_ her _home. She’s not saying it’s_ your _home. And she’s definitely not saying it’s home because you are in it. Fool._   

“Chinese or Mediterranean?” 

“Uh… Chinese?” 

“Chicken or beef?” 

“Which do you prefer." 

“Oh, I’m having a lamb rogan josh.” 

“I’ll have the chicken, then.” 

Satisfied, she tossed their lunches in the microwave oven and before long, they were seated at her dining table. 

“Do you do this often?” 

“Hmmm?” 

“Come back home for lunch?” 

“Never. I should, since I live so close by. But I’ve never thought to do it.” 

They munched their lunches in silence, Petyr pleasantly surprised by the quality of the meal. It really did taste homemade, even if the helping was tiny. 

A question floated into view, the same one he had been dying to ask all morning but somehow lacked the opportunity or the guts to. 

“Catelyn,” he asked, with no soft open. “Is she in town much lately?” 

“No… my mum’s been away most of this month, except for last week after the fight and when you were in hospital.” 

“Ah.” That explained some things, at least. The seeming ambivalence to her daughter’s own changing body, for one thing. 

“And has she seen you… much?" 

“No, I suppose not. Why? Were you hoping to talk to her?” 

“Not really, no,” Petyr replied vaguely. “I was just curious about how things with Ramsay are going.” 

At his name, Sansa stiffened visibly and he laid his hand on hers reflexively, before pulling it away hastily. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have mentioned that asshole.” 

“It’s fine,” she shrugged, and helped herself to another mouthful. She chewed for a moment thoughtfully. “It’s funny you should mention him, because I’ve been feeling frustrated about that side of things.” 

“Can you tell me, or is it classified?” 

She shook her head. “It’s not classified. I just… we’re not getting anywhere fast, that’s all. It’s disappointing, really. You would think an incident like that would be pretty open-and-shut.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “And it’s not?” 

“No.” Her tone was laced with disgust. “Somehow, it can’t be a straight dismissal, even with the police report. If there had been a trial and he was convicted, sure. But whether it’s because of his father, or just the way the bureaucracy moves… They are now assembling a panel. It’s… I can’t even begin to describe how I feel about this…” 

“You’re frustrated that all you’ve been through feels almost discounted because they’re not moving fast enough. Like they’re not taking this seriously.” 

“YES!” replied Sansa, her blue eyes staring straight into his. “And it’s not just me… it’s you. What they’ve done to _you_.” 

He smiled thinly then.  

“Well… to be fair… Ramsay didn’t cause this—" he pointed to his collarbone. “Or this—" he pointed to his ribs.  

“However…” And this time he looked into Sansa’s worried eyes. “I cannot be entirely sure about _this_.” And he drew a finger lightly from his collarbone to his navel. “You see,” he added softly, “I’m pretty sure that if that thing Joffrey calls his Mountain had a knife, I’d be quite dead.” 

She swallowed then and nodded. “Ramsay, you think?” 

“I don’t know,” replied Petyr lightly, leaning back into the chair. “I wasn’t conscious then.” 

“What does your police report say?” 

“Exactly what I just told you.” 

“Huh,” replied Sansa. “Good to know.” He smiled as he watched her think, a small frown forming between her brows.  

“What else does your HR department need to be persuaded to lynch that bastard?” 

“They WANT to lynch him, but they’re saying that on paper anyway, this is his first offence.” 

“You’re kidding me! That asshole is a walking sexual harassment suit.” 

“Nothing’s ever really stuck,” Sansa sighed heavily. “He’s an asshole but he’s a consummate public servant. He knows _exactly_ what to say, how to play it, all the loopholes. All the cases against him have been small enough to be stymied and he has other ways of silencing his detractors. And then there is his father.” 

“I see." 

“The only thing that matters to the public service is the embarrassment, Petyr. Sometimes it seems to work that way.” 

“I see.” He didn’t just see. He knew. He had always known.  

Petyr leaned forward then, his lunch long forgotten now.  

“Sansa,” he began and from his tone of voice, her eyes flicked back to his, suddenly alert. “Sansa, you need to fire my agency.” 

“But what about—“ 

“You need to lay all blame at both Ramsay’s and Joffrey’s feet — everything, the leak to the media, the fact that Ramsay is a psycho and in cahoots with Joffrey, the brat prince and heir to one of the biggest communication conglomerates in the world. You still haven’t made that abundantly clear to the media. _They_ want to see blood drawn. As it is, they’ve been spinning this as your Ministry not taking the issue seriously enough. That you’ve dismissed it as a prank gone bad but you haven’t fired the perpetrators. The media _smell_ this. They’ve been trying to find an in for ages, spin it as an entire government department that is out of touch. When really, it’s a couple of hooligans. You’ve got your scapegoats now. More than that, you’ve got your actual villains. They _actually_ did it. This isn’t spin anymore. But you have to take the most stringent course of action to prove it. Even if it embarrasses Roose Bolton and leaves your department stranded without an agency for a little while. 

“Sansa…” and his eyes bore into hers then, even as his tone remained gentle. “You know this. All of this. I won’t teach you to suck eggs, so tell me. Why haven’t you fired my agency yet?” 

“It’s complicated.” 

“No it’s not. I suspect things wouldn’t have gotten quite so big if you hadn’t thrown the full blame on our agency from the first. So why?” 

“Cersei would have taken us to the cleaners with her legal team.” 

“Sansa,” Petyr replied softly. “You’re the Prime Minister’s office. Why haven’t you fired my agency yet?" 

She fell silent, but she couldn’t look away. They stared at each other, another wordless conversation. _I think I know why,_ his eyes say. _But I want to hear you say it._

But she wouldn’t. Even though they both knew why. A bizarre need to protect, even futilely. It should highly amuse him that a slip of a girl he has at least fifteen years on professionally should be so protective of his career. But it didn’t. It only touched him, even as it exasperated him.  

“I’m quitting, you know.” He said it flatly, matter-of-factly. “They don’t know it yet, and I’m sorting out money things but when I have that bedded down, I’m leaving L&S. Maybe even the country. I haven’t decided.” He had tossed the last in, to find a reaction. _I’m a bastard, but a bastard who has to know…_

Her eyes widened and just for a fleeting moment, hope flared. 

“Why are you leaving?” 

He gave a short laugh and then winced immediately. _Ribs, you fool._ He wasn’t sure if she had meant leaving the country or the agency, but he skipped lightly along to safer borders. “Apart from the kid of my boss who just beat me up by proxy with a Yeti? I’m leaving because I’m compromised, Sansa.” He shrugged. “You were right all along, you know. From the very beginning. I shouldn’t have pursued this tender. Not while there’s a conflict of interest. Not while there’s feelings involved.” 

She opened her mouth and closed it again, gobsmacked.  

That is, until she found her voice. 

“Told you.” 

* * *

He waited until she left to return to the office before flicking his phone on.

“Hello, Frankenstein!” 

“Technically, Frankenstein’s monster. Victor Frankenstein was the scientist.” 

“Are you fucking going to lecture me, Petyr?” 

He smiled. Ah, Ros. 

“Listen, you still good with Ramsay?” 

“Just like you told me to. I’m waiting for the day I can stick my fork in his face while smiling sweetly at him like I’ve been.” 

“That opportunity’s coming soon. Can you play the clueless receptionist needing personal IT advice? I need to find out who Ramsay’s internet service provider is.” 

“Give me two minutes.” 

He hung up and waited. It was closer to five minutes before she called him back. 

“It’s Telstra.”  

“You’re a legend.” 

“What are you up to?” 

“Some light espionage.” 

He could practically hear her roll her eyes as he hung up and he grinned to himself again. Another scroll through his phonebook, and this time his voice was velvet-soft and low as he purred into the phone. 

“Hello Myranda. It’s Petyr Baelish.” 

* * *

There was work in the office but she left anyway, reaching home just before six instead of her usual seven or eight. 

“Hi,” he waved tentatively from the corner of her couch. 

“Hi,” she waved back softly. She took in the fact that his laptop was open on his bed, that the dishes from lunch were washed. His body was still bare, but somehow he had managed to change into a pair of soft drawstring pants. That must have bloody hurt. Bullheaded so-and-so.   

“How… was your day?” 

“It wasn’t too bad,” she replied, and sank into the armchair facing him, kicking off her heels. He stared at her feet but if he thought she was insane to be pregnant and wearing heels still, he never said so. Clever man. 

“I think Ros knows I’m pregnant,” she admitted. “I mean, I’m guessing the office is starting to talk but she actually behaves like I’m pregnant. We were having Friday afternoon drinks today and I had been sipping from a wine glass even though it was just apple juice. She kept hovering until I figured out what was bugging her, and pointed to the carton. Like, really?” 

“People care about you,” Petyr replied easily. “Is that so difficult to believe?” 

“A little,” Sansa replied honestly. “I find most of the time, people either talk to me like I’m stupid because I look a certain way, or they don’t talk to me because they find me somehow intimidating. But Ros seems to treat everyone about the same. She’s pretty fierce and very efficient. If they brought back executive assistants for managers at my level, I’d have her in a heartbeat. She’d be good.” 

At the praise, Petyr smiled, rather pleased. It felt good to know that Sansa recognised talent the way he did, in her own way. And that she valued Ros. He found he rather liked how she knew and got along with two of his closest friends, even if she didn’t yet realise who Ros was to him. Somehow, having them all get along made him feel almost proud.  

Except, of course, for the fact that Sansa and he were no longer together.  

“How was the rest of the afternoon?” 

“Busy, actually. I was acting on higher duties a little while Mum is away in Darwin. She should be back by now.” She flexed her foot, and Petyr longed to slide over and massage it until she groaned with contentment. But as things were, he stayed right in his corner.  

“Do you like your job?” he asked suddenly.  

“What?” 

“I’m genuinely curious… do you like your job?” 

“It’s alright, I guess…” Sansa shrugged, but she knew better. And suddenly, she didn’t mind telling him either. “No, actually, I don’t. But I’ve been doing it for so long, I feel like I don’t know what else I’m good for.” 

“That’s an understandable feeling,” he replied sympathetically. “But by no means accurate. You’re an amazing woman. You’ll find something else and you’ll fly. You’ll see.” 

Again, she felt her mouth open and then close, wordless. Her manners saved the day. “Thank you… I guess.” A pause. “What about you? How was your day? Did you get much sleep?” 

“A little,” he replied noncommittally and then smiled. “Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” 

“I’m not worried,” she lied airily. As if proving her point, she got up from the armchair and that was when she caught him staring at her swelling belly. 

“How about you?” he asked softly. “How are _you_ feeling?” 

“Oh me? I’m fine.” She avoided his gaze. “Please don’t worry about me,” she added, echoing his own words. 

“I can’t help it,” was the unexpected response. Sansa whipped her head up to look at him, her eyebrows furrowed in surprise. “I think about you all the time. About both of you." 

She stared at him. He felt her confusion and he longed to say more. _I’m sorry._ That would be appropriate. _I’ve been a complete and utter twat._ More honest. But then what? What could he give that she’d want now? 

“Dinner can be nuked in half an hour… why don’t you jump in the shower. I’ll get things ready.” 

“Leave it,” she commanded him. " _I’ll_ do it.” But she eyed her bedroom longingly. “A shower sounds real good right now. Even a bath.” 

He pictured her stepping carefully in, the water level rising as she sank beneath bubbles. The rise and fall of her breasts, her belly as she soaped herself. It was a picture that took his breath away. He was already breathing shallowly anyway.  

“I’ll wait for you,” he replied lightly, and she pushed his laptop closer to him, anticipating his need for it. His eyes flickered over as she walked into her room. The water turned on eventually. _A shower, then._

He was just finishing off a sentence slowly when the doorbell sounded. 

_Crap._

A decision. Was he even supposed to be here? He doubted that Sansa would have told anyone about their non-former-ruined-hopefully-mendable relationship. What if it was a courier, though? Did they work this late? The least he could do was to have a look through the peephole. 

But that would involve getting himself out of bed. In a hurry. 

Ding-dong. 

Slowly, his skin screaming with every unintended twist, his ribs then robbing him of breath, then his blasted knee… Slowly, he managed to get himself out as he had practised for most of the day, hobbling gingerly over as fast as he dared without injuring himself even more. 

Yet another sound of the doorbell. Whoever it was on the other side of the door was bloody insistent. Petyr braced himself on the door with his good shoulder, flicking open the cover to the peephole.

_Oh you have got to be fucking with me._

Another decision, but this time the answer came almost instantly. Finding his balance, he unlatched the door before slowly pulling it open. By no means an easy feat, but so worth it... 

“Good evening, Harrold,” smiled Petyr. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Happy New Year, everybody! Here's a longer-than-usual chapter that just kinda emerged after about 12 days of dying to write this. Thank you for waiting and hope your new year is lookin' good thus far.
> 
> We know Petyr's isn't looking too shabby. ;-)


	23. Chapter 23

“Petyr?” 

“As I live and breathe.” 

He took in the tall pretty boy before him — blonde hair artfully gelled, casual wardrobe by Brooks Brothers, and holding a fucking bunch of store-bought wildflowers. Eyes big as saucers. Mouth like a goldfish. Petyr smirked. 

“Y… you’re staying here?” 

Petyr watched as Harrold struggled to believe it, his bugged eyes sweeping from Petyr's bare, broken collarbone, down past the angry red flesh held together by staples, and resting finally on the soft emerald pyjama pants hanging on his hips. 

“As you see.” The smirk deepened as Harrold’s cheeks coloured and his eyes darted back to Petyr's. 

"Yeah... I heard about the fight, man. That's rough." He tilted his chin at Petyr's chest. "Hurt much?"  

And even though his knee was aching so bad his ears were starting to hurt, Petyr shrugged. "It will heal," he replied with more nonchalent bravado than he felt. He tilted his chin likewise at the bouquet in Harry’s hand. “Those for me?” he drawled. “My favourite. You shouldn’t have." 

“Who is that?”  

And before he could tell her — he so wanted to tell her! — Sansa was by his side, pulling the door further back and relieving him of that burden. As soon as she found her answer, however, her face turned to stone. 

“Harrold. What are you doing here.” 

“I… uh… your mother…” 

“It appears young Harrold here thought to check in on your mental health, Sweetling.” 

Sansa shot Petyr a glare that could stun a small rodent on sight, but Petyr was enjoying himself for the first time in weeks and would not be thwarted. It was perfect, really. Her hair was still wrapped in a towel, and she had thrown on an oversized flannel shirt that buttoned down front. If Petyr didn’t know better, it could pass off as a man’s shirt. Maybe even one of his own. 

Not that he’d ever be caught dead in flannel. But Harrold didn’t know that about Petyr, now did he. 

As if suddenly defensive, Sansa crossed her arms over her chest and that was when Harrold let out an audible gasp. 

“Sansa… _your body!_ ” 

Too late. Even as Sansa dropped her arms immediately, apprehension now colouring her azure-blue eyes, both of them knew exactly what Dirty Harry saw. 

“Are you _pregnant?!_ ” 

“You don't have to tell the whole building!” hissed Sansa indignantly, but Harrold was really struggling now, his mouth working madly before the words thought to come. 

“Does your _mum_ know this?” he finally spluttered. 

“No, not yet… so don’t tell her. Please.” 

“ _She doesn’t know?_  How is that even possible — doesn’t she work with you?” Harrold stared disbelievingly at Sansa’s belly, almost as if he were expecting an alien arm to graze past any second now. “How can she _not know you’re pregnant!_ ” 

“That’s what I’ve been wondering too!” chimed in Petyr confidentially. “Sansa always looks beautiful and dresses very cleverly. But you’ve got to be blind not to notice, _I_ think.” 

If looks could boil rabbits… but Petyr only returned her glare with the countenance of an angel, thereabouts.  

“My mother’s been away a lot,” Sansa returned icily. “And she’s busy. Plus I think it’s only obvious when you see me sporadically. The changes are noticeable then.” She shook her head, almost as if she couldn’t believe she was having to explain her mother. 

“B… but… whose is it!” 

And Petyr, who had been gazing at his feet to focus on schooling his face, looked up swiftly, alert. _What would she say?_ he wondered. _Would she tell him? Would she lie?_  He suddenly needed to know. 

“It’s mine,” she replied, eyes flashing. 

Harrold blinked. “Yes… but who’s the father?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“What do you… Duh, o _f course_ it matters, Sans!” Harrold was staring at her now and Petyr wondered if Harry was on the verge of throwing a nutty. He leaned against the doorway to brace his weight, edging himself slightly in front of Sansa. He glanced at her then, just as she did the same to him.  

The look on her face... She was _hating_ this. She was hating every single second of this. Something shrivelled inside him instantly, even as they both glanced quickly away.  

But Harry saw it. He stared at the both of them, his eyes flitting between Sansa, and then Petyr, and back again. Petyr saw the very moment the penny dropped like in a cheap carnival game; saw the way it circled 'round and 'round Harry's thoughts before rolling down to his mouth so his tongue came alive with spluttering indignation. 

" _His?!_ " He pointed at Petyr. "You're having _his_ baby?" 

"Wait, just because Petyr is standing h—" 

"You are, aren't you! All those rumours that skinny Marketing guy on the boat was talking about... you and _him_? I just thought that skinny asshole was making stuff up!" Harry turned and stared at Petyr, his disgust now unbridled and as pronounced as his enviable cheekbones. "Turns out you're just a dirty old lech after all." 

Petyr raised an eyebrow. First swipe, and some blood already drawn. A muscle twitched in Petyr's jaw but his visage remained cool and almost bored. 

"Harry..." Sansa warned. 

But Harrold Hardyng, GQ Australia's 2016 Bachelor of the Year and Heir Apparent to a shitload of commercial developments and — if he got very, very lucky — the third largest chain of "clean coal" power stations this side of the equator, was having none of it. 

"And you're keeping it?” A statement of fact, not a question. “You’re seriously going to have this baby? I don’t get it — why! When you could have had me!" And if it didn't hurt so bloody much to do it, Petyr would have barked a laugh at the hubris. _He really does think he's the gods' gift to women everywhere,_ marvelled Petyr. _Oh to be so young and entitled..._

But Sansa was not amused. “I don’t know how else to say this, Harry. But I never had any intention of getting back together with you again." 

“You keep saying that, but I know it’s because you’re just payin' me back for before, and then you’d come ‘round.” 

Sansa shook her head and Petyr couldn’t agree more. _Unfuckingbelievable._

“I wasn’t doing anything of the sort, Harry. I really, _really_ have no intention of getting back together with you. I’m not even hinting, Harry! I’m _telling_ you!" 

"Why? Because I cheated all those years ago? How many times must I say this — it was just sex, baby. Not feelings.”  

“Ho, I know it wasn’t feelings, Harry,” snapped Sansa bitterly. "You only love yourself. You still don’t get it — you’re dead to me  _because you don’t think cheating is wrong!_ "  

Harrold snorted articulately then, but Petyr was staring at her now. She was assiduously avoiding his gaze, even as she stared daggers at Harry. Petyr willed her to look at him, but then what? He was a cheater too. Even worse — a manipulative almost-cheater, who knew _exactly_ what he needed to do to get an Out like a fucking coward. He was no better than Wildflower Wanker over here after all. 

_Please forgive me. Someday. Someday soon._

She kept her face forward. 

“I think you should leave. Please leave, Harry.” 

Harrold gave another light snort. “Yeah. So you can carry on with your beaten up dirty old man here? Sure. I don’t get it, seriously. Is it the age? Am I not old enough?” His eyes narrowed then. "You got those weird daddy issues they talk about in those magazines?"  

She reached over to slap him then, but he was too quick for that this time. He stepped back easily. 

"That the way you like to settle things now, baby? You slap me for cheating like you're some kind of proper little lady, when all this time you’ve been screwing a nobody twice our age..." 

"Petyr's not a nobody," seethed Sansa. "He's completely self-made, unlike you. You've done _nothing_ for yourself. Even your looks aren't a credit to you — you were born with everything handed to you!" 

“But like _you_ weren't," Harrold countered. "Honestly, grovelling around in some stupid government office like some cheap commoner? The way your family carries on and on about serving the nation and 'giving back' — just pretentious bullshit, really. You think you're better than us? You're all self-righteous princesses and richer than the gods — but bloody stingy, too." 

“Fuck off, pretty boy," Petyr growled. "Sansa, close the door!" 

But she hardly heard him at all. "I should never have wasted those years with you," she gritted out, her voice low and trembling with rage. "You're beneath me." 

"Well, yeah?” And Harrold stepped closer so he now towered over the both of them. Petyr inched forward, his broken body shielding Sansa instinctively. His eyes stared up at Harry’s jugular vein, now angry and bulging slightly.  

What he would give right now not to be wounded and useless. _Balls_. 

"I’ll tell you a secret, Sans — you were _never_ great in bed. That’s why I needed those girls on the side. If you want to blame someone, look in the mirr’r. You were right about one thing, though — I never loved you, baby. Ever. But your money and your family name sure are attractive. Except now that you're playing house with the Help, you can both fuck yourselves. The deal's off. I'm not sticking around to play dad to some old man's bastard. Your loss, baby doll. Not mine." 

And if his ribs weren't broke, if his chest weren't split, if his knee... But all Petyr could do was clench his left fist till his nails dug crescents deep and lasting. _Impotent. Useless._   

“And oh,” Harry added, as an afterthought. "I'm telling Catelyn. And Ned.” 

“You shitbag motherfuc—" 

"GO TO HELL, HARROLD HARDYNG!" But a sob caught in her throat at the last, watering down the vitriol completely. Somehow he managed to pull her away from the doorway, then slam the door shut even as Harrold opened his mouth to retort. She ran to her room then, and he hobbled to the small ottoman by the door before landing on it heavily. The movement jarred his body once more and this time he groaned loudly. He was exhausted. His strong leg was starting to shake. He had overdone it today, for sure. 

But Sansa was in her room, probably crying. 

He sighed heavily. _What a fucking mess._ And nowhere near as satisfying as he thought it would have been. Even he had been surprised by Harry's venom, towards the end.  

Hell obviously hath no fury like a poor little rich boy scorned.     

Slowly, he pulled himself back up to standing and started to hobble over to her room. He was feeling it now. His whole body was wracked, even the good bits. He was sick of feeling pain and was probably due for his medication.  

But first, he had to go to her. 

“Go away!” he heard her muffled voice when he knocked.  

“Sansa, I need to know that you’ll be alright.” 

Some movement behind the door, he thought. And then it was flung open suddenly, her expression thunderous. 

“You did that on purpose!” 

“What?” 

“Opening the door to him, fully knowing how it would look. And now it’s out… and my parents… oh gods…” 

“Sansa…” he began gently. “It was bound to come out sooner or later.” 

“Yes, but not like _this!_ ” she replied fiercely. “This will kill them!” 

“Then beat Harrold to the punch,” insisted Petyr. His eyes flicked over to her cordless phone beside her bed. “Call them. Drive over. Do what needs to be done. They need to know. You cannot hide this from them.” He took a deep breath for the next bit. 

“I’ll come with you, and we’ll face them together.” 

“ _No._ ” Her head shot back up to face him, lips thinned and set on an obstinate line. _So like her mother,_ he realised. _Just in this instant. Uncanny. Spooky._

_“_ I won’t let you face this alone.” 

“I can manage on my own. I don’t need you.” 

“I know you don’t need me, Sansa. You’re an amazing, independent, brave and mighty woman. But just because you can, doesn’t mean you _should_.” He gestured to the phone again. “Call them,” he urged softly. 

Slowly, she turned back into her room and he hobbled behind her tentatively, half expecting her to yell at him to leave. But she didn’t, so he sank gratefully into the bed and right beside her as she lifted the handset up.  

She pressed familiar buttons deftly but just when it came to placing the call, her thumb paused over the green button as if suddenly frozen in place. 

Seconds passed. A half minute. Then a full one.  

He placed a hand lightly on her forearm, and it was as if he had shocked her system suddenly. 

“I can’t,” she whispered and dropped the handset back in its cradle. 

“Sansa…” 

“Leave my room, Petyr.” Her voice was cold and had its desired effect. A shiver ran down his back just then, and it had nothing to do with the air-conditioning. 

Petyr stared at her as she stubbornly faced her nightstand, her eyes unseeing, her entire posture inclined away from him. A fence. A wall. A boulder. He wished desperately she’d see how she was unwisely delaying the inevitable. The longer she put this off, the worse this was going to be. Harrold had probably already placed the call as they sat here waiting, waiting, waiting… 

“Just try, Sans—“ 

“Get out.” And this time he heard the tinge of brittle hysteria in her voice beneath the cold, unyielding steel.  

“Okay,” he placated, and gingerly pulled himself back up to standing. _Pills. I need my fucking pills. She needs to make that call. Now. Fuck._

“I’m going to bed now,” she murmured as soon as he shuffled just past her doorway. And then she closed the door behind him and he was alone, the air in the living room, in his lungs, suddenly sucked right out. Cut off.  

It was excruciating. 

* * *

He awoke with a jolt and his ribs yelled back, indignant. He hardly felt like he’d slept at all.

The hammering on the door got louder and harder. 

Slowly he lowered his legs over the side of the bed, his skin stretching and screaming anew so much he thought it’d tear and bleed again. His muscles were sore — sorer than he’d ever remembered them being since the day of the fight. He had definitely overdone it yesterday. 

The hammering again. _There’s a doorbell, fucker. Learn to use it._

The door to Sansa’s bedroom swung open abruptly and her graceful form slipped past him in a blur, all mussed flaming hair and cotton and the lingering fragrance of her musk. 

Sansa squinted through the peephole and then froze visibly. 

“Who is it?” he croaked, but he already knew. 

“I know you’re in there!” called the muffled, irate voice of Catelyn Stark. “You’d better open the door, you two. Yes, I know he’s in there with you!” 

Sansa looked over her shoulder back at him. He was gazing at her, his hair tousled and kinked from sleep, his panda eyes visible even from here. His face was impassive, watchful, and yet she gained a certain strength from him. 

She took a deep breath. In. Out.  

“Good morning, Mother.” 

After all the hammering, the threatening, Catelyn Stark stood at her entrance as if cursed and rooted to spot. Her eyes had fallen immediately on her daughter’s torso, the swell of baby now emphasised by the protective hand laying over it. 

“So it is true!” she whispered, and Sansa felt each word like it were a lashing on her back. 

Slowly, her mother dragged her gaze back up to her daughter’s face. Catelyn's eyes were blown wide, her mouth downturned, the angry flush of her cheeks hiding her shocked pallor underneath. 

Anger flooded back in before too long. 

“Where is he!” Catelyn’s voice was low and menacing now. 

“Mum, he’s not well, he’s…” 

“I don’t care! That man… I will kill him with my bare hands…” 

She pushed past her daughter and found the primary object of her greatest vexation sitting gingerly on the edge of the sofa bed. His eyes were watchful but inscrutable. 

“What the hell do you have to say for yourself?” Catelyn Stark hissed.  

“I am sorry,” he replied at once. It was a statement of fact, delivered with little emotion and to-do. Sansa’s breath hitched in spite of herself.  

“You are sorry, alright.” Catelyn crossed the tiny room in five long strides, fists clenched. “You will pay for this, you sick man! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself!” 

“I am,” he replied, still with that calm, clear voice. He turned to face Sansa fully then, his eyes locking with hers immediately since _her_ eyes never seemed to be far away from his own. “I am very sorry and ashamed,” he announced to her and her alone, "But not for the reasons you think.” 

_I’m so sorry I was careless with your body and then your heart. I’m so sorry you’re having to suffer humiliation after humiliation. I would take your place if I could. Please believe me._

Sansa's breaths were shallow and quick now, but she schooled her face to a blank. It took effort but she did it, even as her heart pounded against her ribcage. 

His apology did far less to affect or assuage her mother, however.  

“Sorry?” Catelyn almost spat. “‘Sorry' won’t cut it, Mr Baelish. ‘Sorry' won’t erase the fact that _my baby girl_ is going to have a child out of wedlock. You men,” she now sneered. “You think with your penises and women always have to pay the price. Always. Stupid, stupid girl!” Her ire turned to Sansa now. “To give away your body to a man like that! No breeding, no name, no decency… and now Harry won’t have you!” 

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT FUCKING HARRY!” Sansa screamed, before cupping her hand on her mouth. Her eyes were all astonishment, the full-bodied sound of fragility cracking like pyrex under high pressure still lingering in the dead silence that fell like a thick pall over the room straight after. 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa whispered into the room, the voice of a frightened child. “I didn’t mean to yell. I just… I’m very emotional lately.” 

Catelyn was finally at a loss for words, her expression torn between wanting to comfort her child and berate her.  

Petyr, however, knew exactly which Sansa needed and deserved. And his anger burned towards the older woman in front of him. He struggled to his feet, and Catelyn watched as Sansa walked over to help him up. 

“You’re nursing him?” Tone incredulous. "Even while you’re in this state?” The accusation was directed at Petyr more than Sansa, but her daughter replied resignedly.  

“You always said it yourself, Ma. I’m pregnant. I’m not useless.” 

“How far along are you?” 

“About twenty-four weeks. And a half.” 

“Twenty-four weeks!" 

Both Catelyn and Petyr’s mouths dropped in unison then. He had guessed she was past the first trimester, having been counting since the day of the pregnancy test. But twenty-four weeks! Why, that was almost… 

“That’s almost six months!” cried Catelyn, shocked. “Do you know the sex of the baby?” 

“I’ve left it as a surprise.” 

The sex of the baby. A boy or a girl. His stomach suddenly felt like a hundred butterflies had taken up residence within. _A boy or a girl._

“You don’t have very much time, then!” And Catelyn turned back to eye Petyr beadily. “The question remains, I suppose, however distasteful — but I suppose it cannot be helped now, since it’s obvious this baby is coming and very soon. Are you going to do the right thing by my daughter and marry her?” 

“I—“ 

“MA!” Sansa’s voice was shocked. “You can’t ask him that!” 

“If I don’t, then who will?” But Catelyn’s face was now twisted even more in bitter disappointment and anger. “Just as I thought,” she regarded Petyr now. "Trigger-happy, and then you’ll leave my daughter with the disgrace and the diapers.” 

“I will do no such thing,” Petyr replied calmly, but Sansa noted the fire in his eyes with growing apprehension. _Please don’t say anything rash. Please don’t make it even worse. Please don’t promise things we don’t mean to keep. Please don’t…_

“I mean to be here. But I mean to be here on Sansa’s terms. I’m not running anywhere, Mrs Stark. That said, I _know_ that Sansa will be an _extraordinary_ mother — loving, empathetic, kind, sacrificial... and never tempted to tie her personal ambitions around her own child's neck. _I know_ she will only seek our child’s happiness. If this kid were to grow up only under her care, he or she already has a tremendous headstart.  

“The truth is, I don’t deserve your remarkable daughter. You and I agree on that at least. But I also believe I don’t really need to be here for either Sansa or this baby to thrive,” Petyr finished, his eyes boring into Catelyn’s so the latter felt the full weight of his thinly veiled accusation and lesson. “But I _want_ to be. And I will — but only if she wants me to. I won’t force her like she’s some kind of stubborn vine that needs to be trained around a rod.” 

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed then. “ _How dare you_ , Mr Baelish, lecture _me_. After all you’ve put my family through! Don’t you know how much you’ve destroyed? What hopes? A very old promise almost as good as a betrothal? You don’t know _anything_ about family, Mr Baelish. So don’t presume to lecture _me_ on the subject!” 

“Then I will.” Sansa’s voice cut through the thick air like a blade. “Petyr’s right, you know. I’m not your child — I’m your servant. You say jump, and we all have to ask ‘How high’. You ‘suggest' and we all scurry before the tongue-lashing begins. And all that guilt. I’ve been suffocated my whole life by _your guilt_. Family. Duty. Honour... but very little love. I _love_ you, Mother. I will never stop loving you. But sometimes, I find it very, very difficult to like you.” 

The shocked silence. Petyr watched as Catelyn’s face paled until she almost matched his cream sheets. A small part of him almost pitied her then, even as his heart swelled with pride. _Sansa. That took huge guts. But it needed to be said._

“Well,” Catelyn breathed after a full minute, the tears suddenly brimming in her unnaturally bright eyes. “Well!” But that was all she could say. 

“Mum…” 

But Catelyn held up her hand. “No, no Sansa, I believe you’ve said your piece.” She turned to look at Petyr. “You think you know what it means to be a parent, Petyr. But you have _no_ idea. You judge me now, but when you have this child and if you stick around to watch it grow, may you never feel the heartache that…” She never finished her sentence, the tears running down her thin face now. 

“Mrs Stark…” 

But she pulled herself straighter so she suddenly seemed tall. Regal again. 

“If you don’t mean to marry each other, he shouldn’t live here,” she said baldly. And then Catelyn Stark turned and swept from the room. She paused at the door with her back still to the pair of them, just long enough to say, “My daughter, you may think the love between a man and a woman is stronger than anything. But you are wrong. A mother’s love is forever, no matter how flawed and misunderstood. You’ll learn that first-hand very soon.” 

And then she was gone. 

As soon as the audible click of the door closing shut broke the awful silence, Sansa swallowed a sob and fled to her room. She kicked her door shut behind her and threw herself on the bed and cried. She cried like she hadn’t cried since she was a teen. She cried even harder than when Margaery had told her about Harry. She cried, full bore, big gulps of ugly. She gasped and howled and cried some more.    

And then she stopped. And then she felt much better. Even different. 

She wasn’t sure how long she had lain on her bed before her ears pricked to the sound of crockery clinking. _What’s he done now…_

She opened her door to find Petyr gingerly making his way to her room, a cup of tea on a saucer, half the contents already spilt from his efforts and even on her tiled floor. 

For the first time since waking up this morning, her face broke into a smile. 

“You idiot,” she said softly, but walked swiftly to him and relieved him of the tea. She set it down on the nearest side table and dragged a chair over before easing him into it. 

“I don’t know if it’s your nefarious plan to stay here longer, but at the rate that you’re going, you’ll be here for months. You need to let your body heal, you stubborn man.” 

She took the tea and drank it, and didn’t have the heart to tell him it was already lukewarm.  

He sighed, and she sighed with him. They sat together in true companionable silence, the first time in months.  

“Sansa…” 

“Shhh…” 

But he took her hand in his, and she looked at him with growing trepidation. _Please don’t spoil this moment. It’s perfect as it is._

“Sansa… earlier with your mother… I wasn’t lying about wanting to be here for you and this baby.” His hand shifted slightly, and she wondered if he yearned to touch her belly. To touch an essence of him growing in her body thick and fast. "I know I signed that waiver. But I’d like to ask if you’ll allow me to break that agreement. You don’t have to answer now, of course. But you’d do me an honour if you think about it at least.” 

And because she had cried it all out just a half hour before, she had nothing left to say.  


	24. Chapter 24

Eggshells. Everywhere. The entire floor of the Public Affairs branch was covered with it. Or else it bloody felt like it whenever anyone walked around Catelyn Stark and her daughter, the Great Expectation. 

It turned out that Harrold had told his mates at Foreign Affairs (the ones who snuck him on the Drunk Christmas Boat) about the whole sordid affair between Sansa (his intended) and Petyr (some geriatric she met through work, can you believe it). One of these mates happened to be sleeping with the lawyer who was handling the conveyancing for a client and now chum, a one Jeyne Poole who was, for many years, a good friend and confidante of one Sansa Stark. This friendship went swimmingly for a couple of years until Sansa became Jeyne's boss and had to performance-manage her friend when poor Jeyne accidentally got promoted to the level of her incompetence and was producing a prodigious amount of rubbish at work, really.  

All this to say, the entire office now had it on good authority that Sansa Stark was newly single, now pregnant, and had probably been sleeping with Petyr Baelish since the dawn of time. _Scandal._

And so it began. Sansa had expected such challenges from the start, but it was one thing to know this intellectually — quite another to experience the sudden hush when you walk into the room, the curious lack of eye contact, or its converse — the pointed stare at your growing baby bump.  

The timing of it was the worst of all. For Sansa had finally set the wheels in motion to fire Lion & Stag Worldwide.  

This did not go down well with Cersei Lannister. 

The day L&S got served, Cersei had gone completely over Sansa’s head and contacted Lady Catelyn Stark and thrown everything at her, including the proverbial kitchen sink. Threats regarding Joffrey were raised, as was the insinuation about Sansa's motive in her current delicate state, and finally a cursory mention of the Prime Minister and Cabinet’s breach of contract. To Catelyn’s credit, she had stared Cersei down with her trademark cold efficiency and eventually won the battle, if not quite the war. But suffice to say, the damage was done. If Catelyn had not previously joined the dots regarding Sansa’s conflict of interest when awarding L&S the win, she most certainly did now.  

To say that work was not enjoyable was the height of understatement.  

There was, however, one unexpected bright spark in all of this. 

Sansa dropped her keys in the blue leaf-shaped dish on the sideboard by her doorway before wearily stepping out of her heels.  

“No… please don’t get up,” she pre-empted as Petyr began to swing his legs over the side of his bed. He had been surprisingly good since her mother’s disastrous visit last week, even allowing Sansa to bully him into staying in bed “to heal properly”. He now patted the space next to him on the bed and she halted for a fraction before acquiescing, folding her legs under her as she sank into the spot, facing him. 

“Was it a very bad day?” his voice rumbled softly, his eyes sympathetic and concerned and she started to feel her shoulders relax. 

“It was an interesting day…” began Sansa slowly. “We just got news that will probably break tomorrow. It’s about Ramsay.” 

“Oh?” said Petyr mildly. “What about?” 

“Well, it turns out that Telstra was doing a routine screen for kiddy porn and other horrors… and Ramsay’s home account got flagged. They notified us as the employer, because this has escalated to the Commonwealth Police… and so now HR has grounds to search his work logs as well.” 

“How random,” Petyr replied, cocking an eyebrow slightly. “Anything… pop up?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Hmm,” was all the reply but something in Petyr’s eyes… A twinkle perhaps? It reminded her of how he’d look at her when he was trying to suppress an incorrigible grin. His manner was quietly sanguine, but she sensed… _glee_. 

“Petyr…” she hesitated. “Is it even remotely possible that you know something about this already?” 

His eyes widened, a studied portrait of bemusement. “I’ve been sitting on this bed all day.” 

* * *

Eventually, the rest of the family cottoned on to the news. Petyr guessed that Sansa had tried to call each of them instead of just dropping an informal text message or email. Whether they eventually found out via Ned and Catelyn or because Sansa told them herself, he could only infer through snatches of conversation. 

Privacy gets hard in a one-bedroom apartment.   

He knew her half-brother Jon was back on assignment, in a country he was not allowed to name. But as for the rest of them — the youngest brothers, the wanderlust sister, the brother in Indonesia... 

Arya had called a day or two after Catelyn’s visit. Sansa had picked up her sister’s call on the landline that evening. He had watched from the corner of his eye as Sansa barely got a word in for the first few minutes, a rapid-fire so loud and insistent spewing from the earpiece that Petyr could hear her agitated tenor from behind the kitchen bench even as the cordless handset was pressed into Sansa’s ear.  

“He’s not taking advantage of me,” he had heard Sansa reply at one point. “But he’s inju—“ 

Another resigned pause. 

“It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t anything like that." 

More waiting. 

“Well, if you _must_ know…” and this time Sansa had lowered her voice so he almost missed it when she mumbled, “we were having _quite a lot of sex_.” 

And then louder. Indignant. 

“Yes I know how babies get made!” 

Eventually, Sansa had taken the call to her room and the last thing he had heard from that conversation was Sansa retorting, “AS IF I’d put him on the phone to you now. Are you insane?!” 

He was still thankful to Sansa for that at least. Arya sounded painful.  

He was just making a cool honey lemon tea for both of them when her mobile rang. Judging from the look of surprise and then delight that crossed her face, he predicted a friendly voice on the other line and was pleased and relieved for her. 

“Talisa?” Sansa answered, and a beautiful smile spread across her face. “How are you! How’s the baby going? No, no, I want to hear about you!” 

He watched her smile widen, her eyes softening as she listened. He pushed her tea towards her and she picked up the glass, her eyes flicking over to him, mouth forming a silent ’thank you’. She was nodding now, sipping her tea and visibly relaxing. 

Whoever this Talisa was, he already liked her for the friendship and comfort she obviously provided Sansa. Something within himself clenched protectively as he realised — and not for the first time — how lonely she must feel otherwise.  

“There’s not much to say, really. We’re travelling well. Bub seems to be growing.” She was grinning with delight now. “A boy? Robb must be thrilled.” _Rob. Her brother? Is this her sister-in-law then?_  “I did the scan, but I didn’t want to find out.” A pause. “No… he didn’t come with me.” She looked at him almost guiltily then. “He didn’t know about it.” 

As much as he felt like he was eavesdropping in plain sight, he could not move away. It was almost surreal, he realised, that this was the first time either of them had chatted with a friend about the pregnancy like any other excited, expecting parent. They had both been so consumed by the drama of everything else that they’d been ironically overlooking this whole other major production happening right before their eyes... 

He stilled then, his heart thumping harder once more as it seemed to do whenever the significance of Baby hit him suddenly like a violent wave. All of it, what he had told Sansa before when he had shared about Lysa — the depression, the resignation, the horror of being tied down, his life grounding into endless tedium because of wedlock and child… None of that fear had actualised this time like he had always imagined and dreaded it would. 

There was now, however, a whole other category of fear. Fear of failing. Fear of fucking up epically and thoroughly and untidily. Fear of gut-wrenching loss.  

She looked at him then, the phone still to her ear, and smiled sheepishly. “He’s standing right here beside me actually. Just give me a moment.” 

She gestured to her bedroom and started to mouth an apology but he held up his hand and shook his head slightly. _Don’t worry about me. Take this call in your room._  As curious as he was, he would gladly leave the apartment and take a long walk if only his knee could take it. Anything to give her the space for much-needed friendship and levity.   

* * *

“Is he the one?” Talisa asked. “The one you told us you think you love?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you still love this man?” 

Sansa paused. 

“It is hard, isn’t it,” Talisa replied softly in the yawning silence, “to turn these feelings off.”  

* * *

He sat on the edge of the bed now, his back upright, and he felt the bed dip behind him as she took her usual position. They both knew the drill now. After his shower — after her hands had touched his body, his back, rubbed down his legs; after her fingers brushed against his neck, his face;  _after_ — she would help him out of the shower, get dressed. Help him dry and dress his long snaking wound which was healing quite nicely. 

And then he would sit on the edge of the bed with a pillow over his more injured side, avoiding the sling. She would settle behind him, her arms reaching around his chest, his side, and over the pillow — all the better to pull it snug to his ribs for support. A hand now over his navel, another over his heart. Her growing belly, her swelling breasts would press up against his back then. Her mouth would be near his ear, her voice soft with each caressing breath and he’d shiver after the first each and every time. Her natural scent — a dance of fruit and musk — would envelop him lightly. And then she would tell him to inhale so that his very first deep and purposeful breath should be filled with _her_. 

“Now breathe in… deep… easy… good, and now hold… two… three… and exhale... slowly… two… three. And another deep breath… slowly… and hold…” 

And he’d practise coughing, her arms around him firm and true. And even though it fucking hurt, this was always the best part of his day.  

* * *

They would quibble now and then. One time, they fought over groceries because he tried to pay for all of it. Many times, it was about him needing to take things slower. 

On the fourteenth day of February, she had returned home from work and he no longer remembered how, but they had proceeded to fight about Catelyn. 

“Stop talking like it’s easy,” he remembered her saying. “She’s my mother. I can’t just tell her off!" 

“But you’re upset,” he had reasoned. “and she’s the one causing the upset. But you bottle it all in, and you tell her the little fibs to spare her feelings, and she never, ever learns until it finally blows and you say something you don’t want to say!” 

“Don’t you dare play Shrink with me, Petyr!” she had snapped back, eyes bright. “You’re the reason we’re fighting in the first place.” 

“She just wants to know that you’re safe and not getting taken advantage of.” 

Sansa’s jaw had dropped. “I can’t believe you’re taking her side!” 

“I’m not on her side! I’m on yours!” 

“You just told me it was perfectly reasonable for her to say what she did because she’s my mother and wants the best for me! Newsflash, Petyr — what she wants is for me to kick you to the curb!” 

“Well, on paper at least, that’s not an unreasonable expectation for a protective mother.” 

“Well fine, pack your bags. I'll kick you out first thing tomorrow because my mother said so, then!” 

“If that would help…” 

“THAT’S _NOT_ WHAT I MEANT! BLOODY HELL! STOP TWISTING EVERYTHING!” she had finally yelled. He stared at her then contemplatively. He had read up about pregnancy hormones, of course. And even if he hadn’t, it was the running joke about pregnant women the world over. Pregnant brain. Pregnant hormones. Pregnant rage. Pregnant crying at a drop of a hat.  

She hadn’t cried yet, thank gods. But Pregnant Rage made an appearance every so often. Or maybe it was just everyday, living-with-my-injured-non-ex rage.  

She had turned on her heel then and stalked off into her room without closing her door. He made his way to her slowly, determined to end the fight cleanly. 

“I’m still mad at you!” 

“You’re not really mad at me, not this time. This is about you and your mum and whatever deep-seated ages-old mother-daughter tension you have going on.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it. Least of all with you.” 

“If you won’t talk to me, at least tell me you’ll talk to someone!” 

“I’m done talking.” And with that, she opened the drawer of her bedside table and retrieved a purple rubbery baton of sorts, slightly curved in the shape of a small boomerang. 

“What are you doing now?” 

But instead of answering, she continued to glower at him as she held up the strange contraption and then fished out her mobile. She clicked a few buttons and it wasn’t until the baton sprang into life that his eyes widened and his mouth went dry. 

She was holding a vibrating dildo. Or something. That could be controlled remotely by an app. _The possibilities._

_Oh._

“I’m going to relax and forget this crappy day now,” she announced. “Please leave the room.” 

“Is that—“ 

“I’m taking matters into my hands now. Go away.” 

She closed the door in his face and he leaned against the doorframe heavily, dumbstruck. The house was silent as a tomb until he heard the undeniable sounds of a whisper-quiet whirring. 

That was when he had his first proper hard-on in weeks.      

* * *

She was there when they took the staples out. She even watched the whole thing, willing herself to adjust to the new angry line dividing his chest in two. 

It looked less like a railway track, now that the staples were gone. But it was such a permanent thing, the thin rope of rejoined flesh left behind. 

She remembered the smooth, flat plane of his chest, flawless skin speckled with dark hair yet untouched by silver highlights. She looked at his body now and mourned the loss of that perfection. Not for her sake, of course, but for his. That such a beautiful male body had been intentionally, unnecessarily marked for life.  

_If only, if only, if only she had not run out the back door. If only she had stayed to hear what he had to say. If only she had not run mad and scared._   

She had run. 

_If only._ She reached over and squeezed his hand. 

* * *

They had been watching a documentary this evening. They had started with the evening news and then graduated to a mildly witty talk show before switching over to a feature on the ageing populations of first-world economies.

And again she was reminded of how much _more_ he knew and had lived through.   

“What this doco doesn’t mention,” he was saying now, his voice rumbly and low as they sat side by side, legs straight, their heads leaning against the headboard, eyes staring dead straight at the TV screen in front of them. “What it completely glosses over is the fact that in these two countries, at least, the economy is slowing right down in part because of their migration policies. If you want to remain homogenous and yet not have more than two babies per couple on average, you’ll be wiped out about four generations in.” 

A flip. Her hand settled on the left of her navel, resting there. She felt a couple more flutters and then it seemed contented again. 

Petyr was pointing at the screen once more. “I met the Chairman of that board once quite by accident… quiet fellow, very dry humour, very sharp mind. His hands are tied by this administration, but you watch. His son is up and coming in the provinces. I reckon give him another two, maybe three cycles and you’ll see his name resurface. Maybe even as a presidential hopeful.” 

A ripple, and then another. _Aren’t you wriggly this evening._

They were cutting to commercial now. He was starting to channel surf to find something else to watch. 

“You know it’s useless,” she reminded him. “They all play their ads at the same time. Call yourself an Adman!” 

He flashed a grin then. “I know… I was just being hopeful.” 

A definite thump. Or something. 

“Petyr…” she hesitated. “Say something else.” 

“Hmmm?” 

“Keep talking.” 

“What do you want me to talk about?” 

“Anything. Hong Kong. Tell me what you did when you were there for a month.” 

“Nothing much… kept Wong Jin Han from putting his foot in it, mostly. Tried to keep him busy with the world’s most boring sport — golf. Hit the casinos with his mates and tried not to lose too much of my own money. It was a glorified holiday. I wanted to punch things.” 

“So does this little fella.” And she reached over and took his hand. He turned to look at her, eyes puzzled, and she gazed right back at him as she placed his palm on her belly. 

“Did you feel that?” 

“Feel…?” 

“Keep talking to me about Hong Kong.” 

“I…” He was struggling to remember now, as understanding started to colour his thoughts. “I… spent quite a bit of my own time hitting the bars. And in the bleary gap between Sober and Drunk, always fantasising how I would have done things differently. With you.” 

_A hundred-eighty split, followed by two somersaults and a handspring back tuck._

Her heart stuttered. But she gave a small smile, almost as if she never heard the last. 

“Now did you feel that?”

“I did.” His face was impenetrable but his eyes were starting to shine. 

“Are you scared?” she whispered. 

“I should be, but I’m not. And _that_ scares me.”  

“I know what you mean." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL THE FEELZ are coming to the fore now. MUSHY MUSHY MUSHEEEE!


	25. Chapter 25

“A better way to dice an onion for more uniform pieces is to keep the part with the roots on… yes, like that. And then carefully, start slicing towards the root. See how it's holding the segments together? Nicely done… very nice... Now hold the onion together and start dicing across…” 

Petyr watched as Sansa slowly worked the chef’s knife, her full concentration on the task at hand. Once he’d teased her enough about her dearth of kitchen skills, he had found her a most willing student. His knee was almost well enough now that it could stand a bout of supermarket shopping and so they had ventured out on Saturday together and he had taught her as much as he dared. 

“Here’s what sweating onions should look like… see? Almost transparent, no colouration. The trick is very low heat, patience and a watchful eye. It takes longer, but this brings out the flavour. Since we’re making a bolognese sauce, you will need the onion as base so this step is crucial if you want a halfway decent sauce. Now turn up the heat gently. You’ll need to caramelise the onion now.” He took a quick swig of the wine from the bottle and she shot him a sly look. 

“I’m just checking the depth, that’s all,” he grinned back at her. He sucked his tongue thoughtfully. “Mmm… I pronounce this bottle of red _quite_ satisfactory.”  

“Good,” she replied drily. “Now leave some for the actual cooking, will you." 

They cooked like this most nights now, him perched on the bar stool almost next to the stove, close enough to the bench top so he could watch her food preparation. He resisted the urge to take over, carefully choosing his words instead to flesh out what had long become muscle memory to him. Some nights, they took so long it was almost nine in the evening before they had dinner.  

But just to watch her taste her own cooking and then break into a smug, satisfied smile… 

She was always well worth the wait.  

And she was ready, he knew. She could pick up an intermediate recipe book now and do it justice. It was perfect timing, really. He was heading home soon, after all.  

* * *

“Now if only all nurses looked as charming as you.” And Sansa grinned before she leaned down to cheek-to-cheek with Tyrion like an old friend. He turned to look at Petyr as he walked slowly towards the both of them. Tyrion tilted his head at Sansa. “Mate, no wonder you carried on like a baby over here about your ’sprained knee'. I bet it was fine two weeks ago.”

“Fuck off,” Petyr purred and the two men bro-hugged before Petyr straightened, grinning, genuinely glad to see his friend. 

“Come in,” said Sansa, opening the door wider and Tyrion entered her home, his sharp eyes taking in the living arrangements, missing nothing. Petyr had definitely been sleeping in the living room. Not kissed and made up yet, then. Pity. 

“Come stay for dinner!” Sansa implored, but Tyrion shook his head.  

“I can’t, I’m sorry. I promised a friend I’d meet him for dinner and drinks. It’s why I drove down today instead of tomorrow. And just as well,” he grinned, eyeing Petyr’s corner of the room. “You’ve hardly packed.” 

“Oi,” Petyr protested, pointing indignantly to his sling. “Be nice!” But he returned the grin with one of his own. The two men caught up with office gossip for a while, snippets of which Sansa caught while she busied herself in the kitchen. She returned shortly with three longnecks and they toasted to Petyr’s recovered ‘bung knee’, air quotes included.    

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Petyr murmured, making his way to the bathroom and Tyrion watched with mild interest as Sansa’s gaze followed his friend’s retreating form.  

“I wouldn’t worry,” he piped up, taking a swig. “If he falls and screws his knee again, I’ll just have to garage and use his precious Aston Martin for longer. Shae would be very pleased.” 

He turned to look at Sansa now, his expression suddenly serious. “And how have you managed? It can’t have been easy for you.” 

“It wasn’t at first… but I think we both got used to it, you know? Eventually.” 

“Playing house with your ex? Not awkward at all… You’ve been very, very generous to take him in like that.” 

She was flushing suddenly now. “How could I not,” she replied honestly. “No matter what had happened between us… well, _you_ saw his state when he was in hospital. And it hasn’t been easy for him here either. He’s been cooped up most of the time in this tiny flat while I’m at work. At least now he can return to work himself and feel more useful.” 

Tyrion’s eyebrows shot up instantly then. “Haven’t you heard? No… I guess not!” 

“What?” 

“Petyr. He’s no longer with L&S, Sansa. He quit.” 

Sansa’s mouth fell open. “When!” 

“When he was here, living with you.” 

“But I thought he was waiting for some kind of package! Did he get it already?” 

“No.” And Sansa watched as a pained look crossed Tyrion’s face, his thick expressive eyebrows now furrowing unhappily until they met. “Unfortunately not. I failed abysmally on that account. No, Petyr quit and there was no recompense outside of the insurance. The proverbial door smacked his ass on his way out.” 

Sansa shook her head. “I can’t believe he would do that. Didn’t he fight?” 

“No."

“Is there a plan? Some kind of court case, or… or… clever way to get back at them? Surely he didn’t just walk away like that!” But Tyrion was shaking his head now. 

“I just… I can’t believe he’d give up that job so easily. He is so good at it. He loves it.” 

“He isn't just good at it, Sansa. He's the best I’ve ever seen. My stupid sister won’t know what she lost, but plenty of us already feel it.” 

“Why did he give up so easily!” Sansa was asking in earnest now. “I don’t understand.” 

“I think for Pete…” Tyrion answered slowly, “the battleground has shifted entirely. I think the real game for him is now  _here_. But he thinks he’s losing this one also. I just… I can tell. 

“Sansa…” And Tyrion hesitated now. “I know I have no right to ask this at all. But is there any chance in the future you’d ever consider letting him be a part of your child’s life, at least?” 

They heard the distant sounds of the toilet flushing, heard the door as it clicked open noisily. Sansa shook her head slightly and both of them fell silent then, plastering on a happy smile as Petyr rounded the corner. 

* * *

This time, she cooked all on her own. She had insisted on it and he was happy to acquiesce, a look of pride crossing his face as she shooed him out of her kitchen.

And as she cooked, she marvelled that she did not suck at it anymore. In just over three weeks, she had gained more mastery and confidence in the kitchen than in the eighteen years living under her own parents’ roof.  

She was grateful to Petyr for that. And not just for the cooking — he was a natural teacher, period. So articulate and precise with his words,  and gifted with a prescient knack for anticipating questions yet sparing her the embarrassment by answering them gently as a matter of course. He could break down the most abstract or mundane concept into tangible, accessible chunks. Something as innate as muscle memory, and he was somehow able to form words around the action so she could see it in her mind and then grasp it for herself.  

She found she liked listening to him. She liked having him in the flat. For the first time, they were conversing at length like normal people without jumping on each other’s bones, and she was continually surprised by her grudging fondness of his company. His _mind_. In the last few days, they had taken to chatting late into the night — particularly now that he was less in pain and could sleep better. They had covered politics, of course. And travels. And the gods. And morality. And relativism and absolutism. And the strange things they had each read or chanced upon in the recent or distant past. The people they met, who had taught them things. A dad-joke that made them smile.  

But not once, she now realised, had she ever really pushed to know more about _him_. He was thirsty for knowledge about her. What did she think of this and that. What was her childhood like, living with so many brothers — and a sister like Arya and mother like Catelyn. What was she like as a little girl. But she had never returned the favour, and she thought of him now and the fact that he had left his job — his career, his _identity_ — without so much as a passing mention. And not once had she ever thought to check in on him and ask how all of that was going. 

If they were friends now… but she wasn’t being a very good friend, was she. Not really. 

The soup had turned out runnier than she would have liked and the chicken, slightly overdone. But he relished each morsel as if each came from a Michelin-star dish, heaping praise and noticing detail and effort. It was kindness, she knew. This was a fairly average meal by most standards — and downright embarrassing, compared to the way he cooked. But she appreciated where the praise was coming from, all the same. There was genuine desire on his part to see her succeed, and she saw how it stood separate and apart from his agenda to re-enter her life and her bed. 

It felt authentic. Selfless. Whole-hearted.  

It felt pure, but most of all… it felt safe. 

* * *

Everything was starting to feel like goodbye now.

She stood at her door to her room and watched him pack. He had been living mostly out of a suitcase, but it’s amazing how quickly a person can spread out — even a person as fastidious and neat as Petyr. 

He could stay, a part of her argued. It wasn’t like he had a job to go back to anymore. He could stay another week, or even two. Have his six-week check up back at the hospital, and then return to Sydney. She’d be well and truly sick of him by then. Surely. 

“I think that’s almost everything,” he was saying now, his eyes sweeping across the room, scanning for things he had missed. “Just my toiletries bag in the bathroom tomorrow, and then I should be done.” 

“If I find anything, I can always mail it to you. As it turns out… I know where you live.” She gave a half smile, a corner of her mouth lifting slightly. 

“You do,” he replied, the curve of his mouth acknowledging the gentle humour. Their eyes locked briefly. “Thank you.” 

He had been saying that for most of the night. _Thank you_. Somehow, she knew he always meant more. _Thank you for putting me up for weeks. Thank you for taking me in despite my abject stupidity. Thank you for taking such good care of me when I did not deserve any care from you._

She would do it all again in a heartbeat. She would never admit it, though. 

“I should probably go take a shower.” 

She watched as he grabbed his clothes from his bed, watched as he ambled to the bathroom door. 

“Wait,” she called out, surprising herself even more than him. “I’ll help you.” 

His face wordlessly said what she already knew; he had been showering by himself the last two days unassisted. But this was their last night together. And something in her core was feeling sentimental.  

He waited until she changed into her baggy T-shirt and her tiniest, shortest pair of shorts. They walked into the bathroom together, and she helped him remove his sling before looking discreetly away as he undressed by himself. 

He no longer needed a stool now, but it was there just within reach. She took the showerhead down as she did before, testing the water against the palm of her hand before she moved it over his body. She watched as the water streamed gently down his shoulders, his back, his buttocks, his thighs and tried to hold on to the moment. He held the showerhead as she squeezed the shampoo on her palm, and then stood aside as she pulled the stool into the cubicle. He sat down before her, his wet back grazing her and the baby as she rubbed her palm over his hair. She watched as he closed his eyes when her fingers started massaging his head, and then the curve behind his ears, his neck, his temples. She heard the tiniest groan and when her hand brushed the side of his face, he reached up suddenly to hold it still and leaned his face into her hand. For old time’s sake.  

She washed the shampoo off, then tapped him on the shoulder and he stood, as if choreographed, so she could take the stool away. Again, he held the showerhead as she started to soap parts of his body carefully. She savoured the feel of him, every brush a goodbye — his neck, his arms, the both of them, his back. And as always, he took it from there, rubbing the soap over his buttocks and then his front. 

And usually she’d look away at this point, but not tonight. 

Even with his hand soaping his cock, she could see his stark desire. Something squeezed inside of her suddenly, and a warmth started spreading within her, started travelling _lower_. When she lifted her gaze and locked eyes with him, she found his cheeks were already flushed and hot. But he stared at her almost defiantly, his hand still soaping his rigid member slowly, the water running carelessly into the drain. A muscle twitched in his jaw, his mouth unsmiling, his gaze intense. All of it, as if to say, _it is what it is._ _I still crave you. But I won’t touch you, if you won’t have me._

Her mouth went dry. She had no idea what she wanted. No. None.  

“I think you can take it from here now,” she heard herself say in a voice that suddenly sounded too loud within the glass frames. The water stopped momentarily as she gingerly stepped out of the cubicle, careful not to slip and fall herself. She did not turn back, even as she flipped the lock and slipped out the door, closing it behind her. She heard the water come back on eventually, imagined how it would wash away the soap to reveal… 

She had no idea what she wanted. No. None.  

* * *

She heard him eventually, every sound in her flat all too familiar so she could easily discern when the light switch in the bathroom was flipped off; sense where he was as he moved back over to the foldout bed. She pictured him slipping the sling back on, and then packing his dirty clothes in the bag to wash when he got home.

Just before he was about to turn off the last lights and plunge the flat into darkness, she felt, rather than saw, him standing outside her bedroom door. 

“Goodnight,” she heard him say softly and just as he was about to move away, she croaked out after him. 

“Could you stay?” But he was already gone.  

* * *

Tyrion arrived the next morning at exactly the time he had promised — which was late, by Petyr and Sansa’s standards. Petyr had used the time in between to thank her properly.

“You’re welcome,” she had replied simply. It'd seemed the safest thing to say when everything else was still jumbled and half-baked anyway. 

“Let me grab your bag,” Tyrion insisted, then hastily— “I’ll head off first and dump these in your boot. Meet me in the car? Lovely seeing you as always, Sansa.”  

And then Tyrion was off. 

They faced each other now, alone. She looked at him properly now, taking in the colour that had returned to his cheeks, the collarbone well on its way, the knee creaking in places but almost back as new.  

She hated goodbyes. And this seemed like _such_ a goodbye. Every fibre of her being seemed sluggish right now, as if fighting the inevitable through inertia. But they had promised each other nothing. He had asked for the door to be opened, but he had not pushed against it. In that regard, he had remained true to his word. 

And in a way, she was remaining true to hers.  

“Have a safe drive,” she was saying now. But the goodbye was still stuck in her throat. 

As if reading her thoughts, he reached over and cupped her cheek in his hand. “Oh Sansa,” he breathed, “how I _wish_ you would forgive me.” 

Her breath stilled at the words. 

The lift pinged then, and he picked up his pillow. “Goodbye,” he said softly. And then he was gone. 

* * *

She cleaned the house then. She threw herself into it, stripping down the beds for laundry, then scrubbing out the bathroom stall on her hands and knees. She turned the radio on and the volume up.

It was Sunday. Last Sunday, they had been bored enough to dust off her Scrabble. And then he had taught her to bake cookies with melted jelly babies, as if she were six years old.     

Loneliness was a bitch. 

And because her apartment was tiny, she had finished her chores in hardly any time. She watched a bad movie, then flipped over to the History channel and tried to imagine what he might say.  

She tried out a new recipe for dinner. More cleaning, and then she gave up finally and retired to bed. 

The silence grated on her nerves. It never used to before. 

The minutes ticked by, and then an hour. 

And then, a message. 

_Did I ever tell you about that time Tyrion got drunk at a camel and ostrich race?_

And just like that, the earth righted itself.  

_No! SPILL._

She fell asleep finally an hour later, her phone clasped loosely in her hand, the screen filled with messages she would dream about later and smile. 

_Not goodbye, then._


	26. Chapter 26

The doctor’s appointment was at half past nine in the morning, which meant he should leave by six to get there in decent time. Which meant he should be asleep by now. He should have been asleep three hours ago.  

But sleep eluded Petyr once more tonight — except this time, it had nothing to do with his body. The pain was still poker-sharp during a spate of coughing, but he was nowhere near as uncomfortable as he had been the first few weeks. The doctor had been right — it had taken him just under seven weeks to feel almost good as new. Or at least, almost as good as before he got bitchslapped by a human mammoth.  

He trailed a finger over his scar lightly, feeling how it bisected his body. Irreversible. There had been a chance, he supposed, of minimising the scar at least. Plastic surgery, back when he was still in hospital. And yet he had somehow let that slip by. Given the chance again… but no. His finger trailed the path and it was almost meditative now. Like Buddha beads. Like a rosary. Like a fucking medal.    

Sleep eluded him the way sleep eludes an excited child waiting to embark on a grand excursion in the morning. 

He checked his mobile one last time, even though he'd committed the message to memory. 

_9:30am, right? Meet you in the foyer._

* * *

She looked in the mirror and groaned in exasperation. _Too much make-up. Way too much. I’ve really overdone it now. Any more, and I’ll look like Boy George._

_Relax, Sans. It’s only the hospital. It’s not a date._

* * *

Parking was ridiculously far flung from the block of clinics where he needed to be.  Petyr alternated between an easy pace and a punishing one; between the mind yelling at him not to fuck his knee up and the rest of his being just chafing to get there as quick as he can. The earlier he got to his block, the more time he had with her. It was that simple. 

He was that keen. 

He came in from the back of the building after taking a shortcut and saw her almost immediately as he approached the foyer. Her hair was down and the dress she wore was pure white and brushed the floor. A thin, navy cardigan wrapped her shoulders. She was facing away from him then, looking out to the main entrance of the building for him. 

She looked exquisite. Tall. Willowy. Beautiful. As much time as he spent thinking of her, he was still slightly stunned by the sight of her now. If he didn’t know better, he’d never guess she was pregnant from this view.   

She noticed him from the corner of her eye just then and turned around, a warm welcome in her smile. The full splendour of her baby bump came into view then. Yes, bub had definitely grown since the last he saw them. 

A strange flutter of pride as he gazed at them both. _Yes, I did that._

“Was parking very bad?” she was asking now, as they exchanged customary kisses on both cheeks. She smelled of flowers and shampoo and _Sansa,_ and he remembered it all again as he inhaled her deeply like a drug. He had missed the gentle intoxication of this cocktail, having imbibed for a month beforehand.  

“I ended up parking way, waaaay over,” he explained. “I’m sorry I’m late.” 

“No you’re not, I’m early.” 

They stepped into the elevator together, small awkward smiles as each thought to let the other through first so they bumped lightly before Petyr stepped markedly to the side and ushered her in ahead of himself.  

“How’s everything,” she was asking now. “Your knee?” 

“Almost back to normal. Just creakier.” 

“And your collarbone?” 

He held up his sling. “Completely for show, for the doctor. I feel fine. Most times, I don’t remember I’ve hurt it.” 

“Don’t tell the doctor that,” she grinned as the elevator door slid open. 

* * *

He liked having her there, sitting beside him as the doctor pressed and prodded, answering the occasional question about his exercises, about his care. _Yes_ , he wanted to tell the specialist, who couldn't quite tear his eyes away from Sansa either, _this junoesque, unearthly vision of loveliness pulled me back together again. I am fucking blessed. That's our baby, by the way. In case you ever doubted it._

They were standing in the corridor now, not quite sure where to go from here. He started first.  

"Thanks for coming with me. That really helped." He smiled and she returned it, her own touched with a kind of shyness. "Going back to work now?" But he already knew the answer to that one. She wasn't going to the office in a cotton floor-length dress that turned almost sheer and made his insides flip-flop whenever she caught the morning light just so.  

"Actually, no. I took the day off today. I have another appointment after this... with my obstetrician. She's just down the corridor." She gestured towards the last door at the short end of the L.  

"Oh," he replied faintly. "That's good timing."  

"Busy today?"  

"No."  

"Wanna come along?"  

“Yes."  

* * *

Sherleen, having worked in reception for almost a decade, had seen her fair share of family set-ups; from the shell-shocked teenagers to the traditional mum-dad-pigeon-pair, to those doing it by surrogacy… right through to the bizarre — discreet polygamous set-ups, and even that one time when the schmuck had fathered a child each with his wife _and_ his mistress just a week apart, but thought so highly of Dr Fae Ann Crenshaw that he had brought both women separately to see her. 

Scheduling _that_ had been interesting. 

When it came to Sansa Stark, Sherleen admitted to having been particularly curious. She was such a stunning girl, really. It wouldn’t surprise Sherleen at all if she turned out to be a model, even though her admission form had stated “public servant”. But she had always said very little to chatty and maternal Sherleen whenever she came for her appointments. And Sherleen had a sixth sense about these things. Sansa came alone, always. And as much as there was a sweetness about her looks, there was an air of sadness about her also. Mistress, maybe? An impossible relationship? 

_But who is this…_

It was the very first time Sansa Stark had brought anyone with her to see Dr Crenshaw. And the gentleman wasn’t anything like what Sherleen was expecting, and yet it was obvious he was the father. 

Peter, for that was the name she had caught, was clearly out of his element. He was anxious that Sansa should find a seat but then refused to sit down himself, opting instead to stand right beside her like a bodyguard and gawk slightly at his surroundings. She saw the way he watched the older toddlers tinkering in the nearby playpen, saw the way his eyes skimmed the wall of thank-you cards filled with photos of newborn babies. He was much older than Sansa, she thought, even though he was dressed rather trendily. Quite a dishy older man, really. _She’d_ certainly go for him. 

Eventually, Sansa persuaded him to take the empty seat beside her, but then Peter would keep popping up like a jack-in-the-box whenever a pregnant customer entered the clinic. Sherleen noted the familiar way Sansa stroked his forearm, the way he visibly relaxed before sinking back down in his chair, a sheepish smile on his face. 

_Poor man is scared stiff,_ thought Sherleen. But at least Sansa looked happy now. 

“Dr Crenshaw will see you now, dear.” And Sherleen made sure to give this Peter an extra-warm beam of encouragement before they both entered the room to see Fae.  

* * *

Dr Fae Ann Crenshaw was a tiny, powerful dynamo of vague Asian descent with dark short, cropped hair, sharp, intelligent eyes, and an expressive, generous mouth. When she was deep in thought, she looked intimidating as heck.

Thank gods she was smiling right now. 

“You been well?” she asked, quickly scanning the report from the midwife before fixing her gaze on Sansa. “Baby kicking regularly? Nausea finally stopped?” 

Sansa replied in the affirmative, and the two women discussed a few more details before Dr Crenshaw transferred the full weight of her penetrative gaze on Petyr. 

“And you are the father?” It was a statement, not a question.  

“Yes.”  

“Good,” she nodded. “Is this your first child?” 

“Yes.”  

"Do you have any questions?” 

_Yes. How fast am I allowed to drive to the hospital when she’s in labour? What do I do if she ends up having it in the house or in the car? What if I faint or throw up during the birth, if she lets me watch? I’ve never held a baby before — are there classes? Also, and this is the important one, what happens if I fuck this up? What happens if this child hates me?_

_What happens when I meet this kid and don’t — can’t — love it?_

Petyr shook his head. “No… not right now.” 

“Hmm,” Dr Crenshaw replied, looking a little disbelieving at that, but she pulled a box towards her and grabbed a couple of gloves from it, snapping it on her tiny, capable hands with a satisfying _twack_. 

“Alright then… shall we go and see bub?” 

Sansa seemed to know the drill, walking immediately to the reclined chair in the corner of the room where all the expensive equipment were. He remained in his own chair to watch from a distance, craning his neck slightly to observe every micro-expression on Sansa’s face.  

“Oops,” Sansa giggled slightly as she realised her mistake of wearing a long dress today. A modesty blanket was coolly proffered and before long, her voluminous white dress was rucked up to expose her tight, swelling belly. He watched as Dr Crenshaw moved a small wand over Sansa’s bulge, and a hush fell over the room before a faint warbling started to play. 

“That,” Dr Crenshaw explained, her back still turned to him, “is the heartbeat of your child, Mr Baelish.” 

His own heart started to quicken then, almost matching the pace of that little ticker beat for beat. _Listen to it go_ , he wondered, amazed. The rapidity of it filled him with awe. _Tiny little thing, but with so much life like a new battery. Fucking astonishing._

The doctor was measuring Sansa now. “Baby’s growing well. Average size.” She nodded, satisfied.  

“Average?” 

“Believe me, honey,” Dr Crenshaw mumbled so quietly, Sansa had to crane her neck to hear her. “You don’t _want_ a huge baby. The least fun thing on your first rodeo is to pop a giant watermelon out of your hoo-ha.”  

She straightened her back suddenly. “You can hop down now.” 

“Doctor,” hesitated Sansa. “I’m wondering… could you show us what the baby looks like?” 

Dr Crenshaw glanced at Sansa, and then leaned back to look at Petyr with a contemplative frown. “Hmm,” she said again. And then suddenly, “Oh what the heck. Petyr, come over here. My monitor is tiny.” 

He didn’t need to be told twice. 

New switches were flipped on, and they watched as the doctor pushed up the lid of a machine that resembled a beige business briefcase to reveal a monitor. He watched as she rubbed goo over Sansa’s stomach, and he took in the new dark line running down from her navel and disappearing under the blanket. 

And then the monitor flickered to life and they both turned to stare, wordless. 

“Baby's not moving very much,” Sansa observed aloud. 

“Probably nap time,” the doctor soothed. “Have some lunch after this, and bub will be bouncing like crazy in there, you’ll see.”  

But Petyr didn’t hear them. The air felt sucked out of the space, the room. And then the world was shrinking rapidly until all that remained in the vacuum was him, the briefcase, and the breath-stealing image of this little... person. 

Petyr stared at the monitor and saw its hand. He made out the vague form of each perfect little finger. And with one of his own, he reached out to trace his child’s sleeping profile on the screen. 

“Hi,” whispered Petyr, “it’s me." 

* * *

They ended up having lunch at one of the cafés by the nearby lake. It was technically autumn but they were having an unseasonably long summer so it was still comfortable to have their meal _al fresco_. A light breeze would catch her hair now and then and she’d twirl a tendril away from her face absently and tuck it behind her ear. 

And each time, he’d long to do it for her. To curl the errant wisps around her ear before brushing his palm slowly down her cheek, He would draw her face to his own after that and kiss her slowly. Sweetly. In public. As if she were his. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

But he kept his hands tucked under his legs instead, his eyes never leaving hers as they picked up old threads of conversation easily.  

They had been messaging constantly for weeks now. He knew what she had for breakfast, and whether she missed lunch, and how she was cooking dinner. She told him the instant she heard a Funny or someone screwed up in the office. He bitched to her from the car about traffic, sent her links to news articles that he knew would interest her or that dovetailed with her work.  

He delighted in making her laugh. He seemed to do it easily and more often than ever before. Sometimes it was even at her expense. A gentle teasing, a running joke, a good-natured ribbing. Just one friend to another. And when she gave him back as good as she got, he could feel his cock dance, his desire for her burning hot and bright.  

The moment the Ministry decided on Ramsay’s dismissal, he had word by text. In fact, she had called. He could picture her eyes shining then, and her voice had sounded thick with emotion as she acknowledged her relief that the person who had “hurt the people she cared about” was finally getting what he deserved.   

She was the first person he texted and the last person whose thoughts he read. The beginning and the end of his day. His alpha, his omega, and everything else in between. 

* * *

“Are you apprehensive about the birth?” Petyr asked at last, his eyes gazing unseeing into the distance, not looking at her. They were walking around the lake now, not touching. His hands were clasped behind his back like a wise old monk's. Either that, or he had to shove them deep into his pockets because all they wanted to do was touch her. Her hand, her elbow, her waist, her hair, her back, her face, her lips, _her_. 

The excitement from the wee hours of the morning, of finally seeing her in the flesh after two and a half weeks apart and yet attuned… the excitement had hardly waned. It’d grown.  

There was a chance. A turning. A change. Perhaps. He could sense it, as faint as it was. He felt like he could come right out of his skin. So instead he looked down at his feet as they strolled slowly, skirting the edge of the waters where the swans were starting to gather, hopeful for bread. The serenity of the place. It did nothing for the roiling within so long as he could smell a real chance. 

He could feel her looking at him then. “A little,” she admitted. She huffed slightly. “My mother wants to be my birth partner. But I don’t know…” 

He grinned then. “She _has_ had five children naturally.” 

“Ugh,” replied Sansa and rolled her eyes. “Exactly. Can you imagine her sympathy levels? ‘Stop snivelling, Sansa. It’s not that bad. It’s only six hours in. Why, when I had your brother, I was doing this for almost twenty hours! While cooking for you and Robb! You think I complained?’ No thank you.” 

He chuckled, then shuddered. The thought of Sansa in agony for twenty hours made his toes curl and his face blanch slightly. If it was anything close to the kind of pain he had gone through, even exceeding it… He wondered how he would take watching her in anguish and being helpless to help. He’d probably punch walls. 

He wondered what she'd felt as she watched him, all those weeks. 

“Are _you_ apprehensive?” she was asking now. He turned to meet her gaze, then looked away. He kicked a pebble and watched it bounce over the edge and into the water.   

“I guess. It’s hard to tell. It’s such a mix of things. A lot of it is excitement because it’s new. A lot of it is fear.” 

“Fear? That… what? Something will happen to the baby?” 

“No, not that,” he replied quickly, looking back at her with a brief, reassuring smile. “Somehow, not that. I don’t have a doubt it'll be alright. The baby will be healthy and if it has even half of your genes, it will be the most gorgeous kid. No… it’s other things.” He hesitated. "Fear of where my place is. Fear that... I’ve already lost something valuable. Huge. I mean, I _know_ I signed that waiver. And I’ll honour it. But what if, when I meet it…”  

_Will it hurt even more? It will, won’t it_. He couldn’t get the words out.   

He stopped in his tracks and she stopped with him. Her face was tight with worry and creased by a complexity of emotions he wished he understood better. And then, because she now inhabited his heart and he could no longer hide himself from her, he took a deep breath to admit his final fear. 

“The worst,” he choked out, “is the horror that when I meet this kid… I feel nothing. That I’m incapable of… that I’m not good enough… that I can’t Dad. I shouldn’t be surprised, should I. But I think that might kill me a little, you know.” 

The look on Sansa’s face. He felt his own flush red, a dull, ugly colour crawling up his neck like a rash. 

The look on her face. But then she was leaning in and before he could think, he felt the press of her lips on his. She pulled away before he could hold her tight to him and never let go.  

“You silly man,” she whispered, leaning her forehead lightly on his, “you’re already being such a Dad."       

* * *

In the end, they watched a movie as good friends do. They sat in the shadows, not touching. He took every chance he got to watch her pleasure. Took in each surprise, every laugh, every cringe, every time the screen lit up and begged for a reaction. 

Mid-way through, she twacked his leg. Hard. 

“Stop _staring_ at me,” she gritted out, holding back a laugh. “You’re creeping me out!” 

* * *

He walked her to her flat, watched as she retrieved her keys from that tiny compartment in her handbag. Everything in its own place, and a place for everything. 

She hesitated at the door. “Petyr… could you come in? I’d like to discuss something with you. It’ll be quick, I think.” 

He tried to read her expression and came up short. He nodded slowly, then pushed the door open to let her in before following behind. 

She dropped her keys in the same blue leaf-shaped dish on the sideboard, and kicked off her shoes. He slipped out of his own but kept his socks on. The tiles could be cold, he knew. He looked around the space he had called home for a month. All traces of him were gone, but the memories were still fresh and tender. 

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked and he shook his head. “Please take a seat.” She tossed back a small, cheeky smile. “Make yourself at home.” 

He gave a small snort and pulled a dining chair back before sinking into it thankfully. Either his knee was now fucked for life, or he was getting old. 

She disappeared into her room and when she came back out and sank into the dining chair beside him, he saw a most familiar document. 

“I’ve been thinking…” she started slowly, “for some time now, and not just today. I know I made you sign the waiver. But I want to tear it now. I can’t keep you away from this child — I’ve no right to! You’ll make a _great_ dad, and this kid is already going to have to deal with a lot. I don’t want to deprive him or her of having a whole other parent who is willing and available.” 

A weight lifted from his shoulders suddenly and his face broke into a broad smile of its own volition.  

“You sure?” 

She nodded, then lifted the document, both hands poised dramatically now to rip. A glance at his handwriting, and then he had to stop her. 

“What?” 

“Sansa… I have a confession to make.” And her eyes narrowed immediately, suddenly alert. 

“I uh… remember when you first showed me the waiver, and I told you this document won’t hold in court?” 

“Yeesss…?” 

“Well… I didn’t sign the waiver.”  

She blinked. “You did. I saw you.” 

“Uh, yeah. _Technically_... I didn’t.” 

Sansa stared at Petyr like he just spoke in tongues. And then she whipped the waiver up to squint at his signature.  

“What… the hell!” Her eyes narrowed accusingly. _“What did you sign!”_

“Pablo,” Petyr answered, and tried not to sound either smug or sheepish. “I signed, ‘Pablo Buchanan’.” 

“BUCHANAN?!”  

“I had to think fast,” he retorted. “I know a P and a B were needed, but I didn’t want to put my name. You know what your mistake was — you didn’t insist on witnesses signing the document as well. That’s why I said it wouldn’t stand in court.” 

She just stared at him and he sighed heavily. 

“Sansa,” he tried to explain, “I just couldn’t. But you were so angry with me, so hurt… I couldn’t stand to make you cry anymore. But how could I… I mean… I couldn’t give up my own child! And so I improvised. I’m sorry I lied to you. Again.” 

“Buchanan.” She breathed. “Pablo. Buchanan.” 

“Yeah…” He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. Anxiously. “Sorry.” 

And then he almost fell off his chair when she threw her head back and started to laugh. She laughed, and then spluttered, took another look at his shocked face and then squealed and laughed again. “Damn these baby hormones!” she gasped in between. She giggled some more, thought of something else, and dropped her head back and laughed till there were real tears. He watched, amazed, bewildered, and fucking _relieved_. 

“You are an unmitigated asshole, Petyr!” she finally sighed, wiping her eyes.   

_Who utterly loves you,_  he wanted to say. But the moment didn’t call for it, so he just sat and grinned. 


	27. Chapter 27

 

10:21pm  
PETYR  
I’ll be in Canberra this weekend. 

10:21pm  
SANSA  
Oh? Got a meeting?

10:22pm  
PETYR  
Of sorts. I’m having dinner with a friend.

10:25pm  
SANSA  
Anyone I know?

10:26pm  
PETYR  
Probably. Canberra’s a small town.  
Three degrees of separation?

10:27pm  
SANSA  
More like two.  
I’m curious now. Who’s the friend?  

10:28pm  
PETYR  
Got any plans this Saturday night?

* * *

The product description promised versatility (can be worn at least six ways!) but at the end of the day, there were only so many ways a wrap dress can work to cover a seven-month-old baby bump. In the end, Sansa kept it simple and wrapped the dress under her arms, leaving her shoulders completely bare. The long straps were wrapped around her chest like a bandeau to form an empire waistline, leaving the rest of the soft aquamarine cotton blend to drape her curves and fall gracefully over her bump, ending just below her calves. 

She looked in the mirror, took in her kitten heels and her matching clutch, and sighed. This will have to do.

And just as the clock chimed six, the doorbell rang.

Sansa had always been partial to a dark well-cut suit with a crisp white shirt, and especially if the clothes horse in question wore the ensemble with such dashing insouciance. She took in the two undone buttons, the thin rope of scar, and the whisper of salt-and-pepper hair that matched his growing, unruly mane that she longed to tame. He needed a haircut, or else no longer bothered to get one now that he was no longer meeting clients. Petyr was leaning against her doorway with an air of studied rakishness that made Sansa suddenly nostalgic for that very first night when he responded to her fateful Tyndyr ad.

Except this time, he was holding a single blood-red long-stemmed rose. 

A sudden pounding in her ears, the heat creeping up her face. _Oh gods, he looked so damn FIIIIINE..._

She swallowed a squeak and managed to sound unaffected and even droll. “Hello, _friend_.” She was sure to press on the word, raising a carefully-plucked eyebrow in challenge.

A corner of his mouth lifted as he slipped the rose into her hand before leaning in to kiss her cheek. Goose pimples ghosted down her neck as his breath skirted her ear before he silkily replied,

“Hello, friend.”

* * *

She loved to watch him cook.  

In the end, they had stayed in instead; he had come prepared, bringing with him a large box tray of groceries that he quickly put to work in her kitchen. “Dinner shouldn’t be long,” he promised, a small smile on the corner of his lips. She was sitting now on a bar stool, a naughty glass of Merlot in her hand. (“Just the one,” he had warned half-playfully.) They had traded places once more, and now it was she who watched as he deftly sliced up onions with effortless skill, style and precision that was trademark of everything he did. 

It was the little things. A hand on the small of her back as he led her to the dining table. A light brush of his hands down her arms as he helped her into her chair. The way he said her name. She had asked for a taste of his famed mushroom sauce as he was wiping the side of the gravy boat with his finger. The look on his face when she held his hand steady and sucked it gently off his thumb…

She had seen that hungry look before. Except now it was tinged with a rawness that was almost painful to look at. And so she would turn lightly away.

She watched from a distance as he plated their meals carefully before casually tossing the apron on the bench top. “Dinner is served, m’lady,” he announced with a flourish as he brought over first their soups and then their mains to the dining table. Then from nowhere, he whipped out a small collection of tall, cream votives in varying heights and lit the wicks with a flick of his wrist.

“Well!” she croaked finally, striving but utterly failing to sound normal and cheerful. “This is all very fancy.”

“Pity,” he deadpanned. “I was gunning for romantic, but I suppose Fancy will do."

* * *

They chatted as they always did, the camaraderie easy, the banter natural and feather-light. But in the slivers of silence between, her eyes might happen to catch his and neither could look away then. 

And her breath would hitch as recognition rushed in, thick and heady.

They had graduated from dinner to dessert now, from the small dining table to her long, grey sofa. Their hands were cupping ramekins of crème brulée, and with each taste of his rave-worthy culinary effort, their arms would brush. Her Merlot had long finished and in its stead, he had been sure to top up her glass with sparkling grape juice. A very poor substitute to be sure, but then it hardly mattered now.

For she was growing drunk. She could feel it, the colour growing warm on her face. A familiar heat stealing across her insides. It had little to do with the Merlot, yet here she was in her own little flat, intoxicated. Quietly drunk on one Petyr Baelish, as he was clearly soaked with  _her_. But oh gods, he was so damn handsome, so damn smooth, and so, so _happy._

And she was growing rather terrified, frankly.

_Too soon,_ her head was screaming, even though adrenaline pumped in her veins and her heart was rushing like a train gone mad. If he dared to pop a diamond ring right now, she might be the first pregnant lady to die from confusion.

And suddenly, she _had_ to know.  

“Petyr,” she now blurted, cutting him off in mid-sentence. “Could you… um… I have to know. About Margaery.”

He stilled.

“Why did you… you know… with her?” She cringed at her own clumsiness, but he was looking at her now and his eyes were hooded and haunted.

"I've wondered when we would talk about this," he admitted. "I've wondered what to say." He looked down and reached across for her hand, bringing it back to his lap. He cradled her hand gently in both of his as if it were a most precious thing, his thumb stroking across her palm absently as he struggled for a time to marshall the words to explain. And she waited for him.

"I ran," he finally said. "That night after you said you loved me... I heard you. And I ran. I'm guessing you knew." He breathed raggedly. "You were so brave and so sure and... I wasn't."

Hurt flashed across her face but he didn't see. His thumb had stopped brushing across her palm, and he was staring, unseeing, at her hand in his lap. "I panicked. I guess you could call it that. I knew — I've known for a long time now — that I've never felt anything like this before, and I panicked." He looked sheepishly up at her. "I _hate_ losing control. I lose myself whenever I'm with you. I couldn't have that. And so I ran." 

And this time he saw the hurt in her eyes. His grip on her hand tightened and sorrow tinged his gaze.  

"Margaery..." he hesitated. "I don't know that I ever set out consciously to do what I did. But in the end, she was a means to an end. Harry — fucking hell, the thought of the guy was fuel to fire. Looking back, I don't understand it myself. He was a significant part of your past, sure. But just the thought of him and you, of you going back to him..." He gave a small snort. "It's a bloody miracle you _didn't_ go back to him, frankly. After the way I treated you." He sighed deeply. "I'm not doing a great job of explaining this. I knew I'd fuck up this part."

"Go on," Sansa urged him quietly. "Just... try."

He nodded. "Okay." He took a deep breath and exhaled, shaking his head. "Okay... okay..." 

She waited. She watched as a myriad of subtle expressions chased across his face. 

She loved him now, more than ever. 

"Everything about the way Harry drove me nuts... about Margaery using me to try and get back at you for Harry... that's just noise, really. Side dressing. Garbage. Excuses. 

"The unvarnished truth is that I epically fucked up the most exquisite thing to ever walk into my life unannounced and uncomplicated. I love you, Sansa. Like I've never loved before. And I am shit scared. You have me ensorcelled and out of control. And I cannot thrive without you. I'm so sorry," his voice broke finally, his lip quivering and she watched as he strove — and failed — to rein his heart in.

And then she watched as this proud, gorgeous man in his expensive charcoal grey suit and his rakish crisp white shirt slowly eased himself off her couch and onto the floor. Her heart leapt to her throat. He got down on one knee, and then both. His head bowed low for a long moment before it tilted back up and his eyes sought hers, clear and bright and wiped of cunning and calculation. 

"Please forgive me," he whispered. And she finally broke, a small sob catching in her throat.

"Shit, Petyr," she replied, her voice wobbly and thick. "How the hell do you do it. I was _so angry_ with you!" Her hand reached for his face and he leaned into it instantly. She started to cry.

"Please don't cry..." But she was openly sobbing now, her shoulders starting to heave and shake.

"Shhh, shhhh..." she heard him, felt him as he moved back up to the couch, strong arms circling her, wrapping her tight. Oh, but he felt so good around her. He felt like home and a million small comforts. He rocked her slowly and she breathed him in deeply, his scent her opiate until she calmed. The sound of his heartbeat thrummed sweetly in her ear as she curled into him like a child.

Finally she unfurled, if only to look deep into his green-grey eyes and drive her point home.

"Don't ever hurt me again," she commanded quietly. "Not like this."

"Never," he promised swiftly, his voice rough with fervent gratitude and determination. 

And then she kissed him, her hand loosely fisting in his hair.

He kissed her back, his arms suddenly crushing her to him. He never wanted to let go. _Finally, finally_. The taste of her. He could scarcely believe it himself and he swallowed a sob of his own, a small whimper escaping from the back of his throat. They clung to each other as if for dear life, as if the moment were tenuous and fleeting like a dream. He kissed her and knew he was lost, and yet somehow more whole than he'd ever known himself to be.     

And she kissed him like she felt just the same. That was the very, very best part.

"Oh Petyr, oh Petyr..." she murmured as if in a trance, her eyes half-closed and her head tilted back. He was kissing her fiercely everywhere now, reclaiming sacred paths he had dreamed about traversing in his sleep. He dusted her face with a hundred kisses, and a thousand more down her neck and bare shoulders, right up to her finger tips which he then sucked slowly in turn. She hummed her enjoyment tunelessly, revelling in his touch as her skin goose pimpled in the wake of his heated mouth. As she started to shiver just a little.

And then she was working his shirt, her hands clumsy and eager, impatient and resolute. He was feeling quite torn himself, a part of him craving to complete himself in her _now now now now_ , yet another wishing to draw out the ecstasy if only to claim a bigger payoff at the end.

Decisions.

"Petyr..." he heard her say. She had pulled his shirt out and his jacket was already off his shoulders and halfway down his arms. "A confession..." she muttered between licks and kisses down his neck, "if I may..."

"Yes?" he managed to eke out, slightly breathless now.

"Pregnant women..." A kiss. "... I've discovered..." A lick. "... are chockful of hormones..." A graze of her teeth. "... and are therefore horny as fuck."

She whipped her head up to search his face, and his shock filled her with glee. She grinned at him archly and his astonishment morphed instantly to devilish delight. He threw back his head and barked out a laugh.

"Oh how I've missed you," he sighed happily. Thrilled. 

"Love you too," was her candid reply, and she touched his arm lightly before planting a searing, open-mouth kiss. "Now take me to my room, please. And roger me good," she ordered. "I don't think I can wait for more candles and wooing."

Oh gods, he _adored_ this woman.

Slowly he stood up and helped her to her feet. They hooked fingers as he led her languidly through to her bedroom even as his heart hammered wildly against his newly mended ribs. And in the shadows, the ambient light barely silhouetting the goddess before him, he leaned in and slowly kissed the woman he loved.

His tongue met hers, and she sighed into his mouth like a girl. Sweeping her hair aside gently, his hand lightly trailed a path from her neck down before gripping her bare back between her delicate shoulder blades. She deepened the kiss then, pressing herself into him and he felt the full swell of her body. 

Her hands were back on his shirt now, most of his buttons already undone. He helped her shrug off his shirt, then step out of his pants. As for her dress... he wasn't quite sure how to begin. But then she pushed him lightly so he fell back on the bed. And he watched as she slipped the dress down over her breasts. She hadn't been wearing a bra. He gazed at her in reverence, taking in the new fullness of her bosom. She had been heavy before, but now... His cock hardened almost painfully.

And then she stopped, suddenly shy now. And he thought he understood.

"Come here," he invited in a low voice, extending his hand to her from the bed. She stepped into the space between his legs, her eyes never leaving his face as his hands slipped underneath the generous skirt, brushing up the side of her sweet milky thighs. His fingers found the elastic of her panties and he took a small breath before easing it down. She stepped out of it, kicking it off to the side without looking. She was breathing more shallowly now, her gaze still fixed on his face. The expression he wore was inscrutable, but she sensed his desire rolling off his skin in waves. She stood absolutely still as he struggled slightly to his feet so he now stood point to point with her. And then he eased her dress slowly over her head until she stood before him, fully woman, naked, and mother of his child.

Something clenched inside him as his eyes rove her openly, taking in the changes he could only peek at or imagine before. She was still Sansa, and yet she was so much more now. Slowly, his hand reached over to cup a breast, savouring both the new weight and the familiar feel of her in his palm. A soft moan from her as he teased the nipple. But he was travelling lower still.

He rested his hands on her belly, his fingers splaying gently over the smooth stretched skin. _There is life inside her._   _It moves. It responds._ The concept alone was blowing his mind, but it now also had the regrettable concomitant quality of deflating his cock slowly like a wheezing balloon.

 _No_ , thought Sansa, as understanding dawned. _No, no, no, NO!_

_“_ Everything okay?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. The look on his face said it all. There was testosterone-fuelled desire for sure, but along with it now was a kind of wide-eyed worship. 

He looked up at her apologetically and sighed. She watched as he brushed his nose across her belly before planting a chaste kiss near her disappearing navel.

“Right now, like this?” he murmured, lips skimming the dark line running down her bump and into the valley, “you are more exquisite, more beautiful than ever. You’re perfect.”

“But you can’t proceed,” she groaned, “because now you’re just looking at me like I’m some kind of untouchable, pregnant... saint.” It was _exactly_ what she had feared and she bit her tongue, sour disappointment coating her insides.

 _She will not cry, she will not cry…_ But weeks of feeling tubby and clumsy had long been preying on her mind, and this sudden change of mood was feeling an awful lot like a personal rejection of her Sexy.  

“Hey,” he murmured, his eyes now widening in concern. “I’m still here. I still want you, _of course_  I do. Just… give me time.” He huffed, slightly frustrated himself. “This is all new to me too. But look…” He sat back down on the bed, patting the space beside him. “Come here. Let me just hold you for a bit.”

She acquiesced grudgingly, crawling into the space beside him and lying on her side to face her window while he spooned her from behind. He draped his arm around her thickened waist so his hand was splayed over her belly once more. The stance was unmistakeable: protective, territorial, _mine._

“You’re upset,” he mumbled into her ear. “Talk to me, Sweetling.” 

She shifted beside him, irritated. 

“What’s there to say?” she answered almost churlishly. "I’m shaped like a dumpy little pear but I’m _constantly turned on_ and I’ve been screaming inside for a proper bonk with you for weeks.”

He raised his eyebrows then. “Is that right.” His lips stretched into a smile she couldn’t see. “Go on.”

She rolled her eyes then, but wriggled closer so her bare bottom now brushed against him. “What do you mean, ‘go on’? _I saw_ the way you looked at me just now. All you can think when you see me now is _Mother of Your Child_.”

“That is simply not true,” he replied quickly. “Ever since we met, I swear my cock grew a homing device tuned only to your fabulous body. And if anything, it’s only gotten more intense as I’ve fallen head over tits for you. But this is also complicated, my darling.” He sighed, searching for words. “This is new to me too,” he repeated at last.

“What are you struggling with, exactly?” Sansa asked finally, curiosity winning out. “Is it the baby being awake?”

“Is the baby awake now?” he asked, surprised. 

“It’s moving a lot,” she admitted, and then kicked herself for making this much, much worse. If he could balk over the fact she was carrying a child within her, imagine how much more weirded out he’d be to know it was doing star jumps as her nervous anticipation was flowing through her body.

He moved his hand lower. “Where?” he asked. “Can you show me?”

She placed her hand over his, then guided it to the place she last felt a flip of sorts. They waited for thirty seconds before getting rewarded by another hop-skip.

“Wow,” she heard him breathe. And then, more reverently, “You’re amazing.”

“Is this what’s troubling you? The baby moving? While we… you know.”

“No… not exactly. You know what, it’s nothing.”

“It’s something. Just spit it out, Petyr.”

She turned to look at him then, her eyebrows knitting together. He was looking rather sheepish now and a little defensive.

“You’ll get cross,” he warned. “I just know it. And I know how stupid it sounds.”

“Just tell me.”

“You’ll be cross!”

“I promise I won’t be cross,” she replied and hoped fervently she actually wouldn’t. “Just tell me.”

He sighed. “I just… I know how anatomy roughly works, right? I’m not stupid. But I just can’t shake the fear that when we’re together, I might just mmmfhbihakbg.”

“You might just what? Speak up!”

“Hit,” he sighed resignedly, “the baby. On its head.”

She stared at him dumbstruck before blurting out, “What, with your huge cock?”

_Oh you did not just say that! CRAAAAAAAP! Crap, crap, crap, CRAP!_

Her hand flew straight to her mouth in mortification. “I’m so sorry!” she moaned. “I have no filter! I’m growing a baby, and somehow my brain-to-mouth filter is missing now! Petyr!” She placed her hand on his face. “I didn’t mean it like that! _Of course_ your cock is huge! It’s the best cock I’ve ever — oh gods, _shut up_ , Sansa!”

“Maybe it’s best you quit while you’re ahead,” Petyr replied drily. 

“Yes, you’re right, good plan,” she squeaked and tried to quell her horror. She turned back abruptly to face her window and squeezed her eyes shut, every muscle cringing as her words replayed in her head over and over. _Idiot._

By and by, she felt his hand slip over her waist again, felt him pull her close so she was tucked under his chin. And then, as if by a miracle, she felt a low rumble behind her as his body started to shake quietly in mirth.

“Oh Sweetling,” he grinned into her hair. “Don’t we make such a sorry pair.”

But now his arm was moving up slowly. He cupped her breast as he did before and felt her tip grow pert as he rolled her nipple. His head dipped down to brush his nose across her ear, right when his hand grasped her breast more fully, kneading it so a moan leaked out from her mouth. 

“About that 'pregnancy glow',” he murmured, “Here’s my plan: how about I take you over and over so you're all flushed in my arms, hmmm?” He bit down gently on that sensitive spot between her neck and her shoulder and she quivered slightly, delighted. A lick and a suck there on that sweet little spot, and he fully intended that the world should see his marks on her skin.

_Nothing to hide now._

The liberation. He felt the blood pool down below, his member growing heavy and thick with luscious anticipation. 

She was still on her side when he kissed and licked his way down her back. And when his hand slid over her mound, he was most gratified to find her already slick.

“Oh my love,” he rasped, “how I’ve missed you…”

He felt her legs part for him, felt her shift so it was all too easy for a finger to slip deep inside of her. He entered it slowly and she sighed long and heavy, as if she’d been waiting for an age.

“Oh gods, I love your fingers…” she murmured as he worked her folds slowly. She was coating him already, her juices thick like honey. 

“Fingers, plural?” he mused, smiling wickedly. “Steady on, I’ve only just begun!”

“Well take the hint, then.” A throaty laugh. “Told you I can’t wait around much longer.”

He acquiesced, eager to please. In truth, he didn’t feel like waiting much longer himself. When he slipped in the other, she moaned appreciatively and he took much pleasure in hearing her cry cut off as he flicked up and found her precious spot, somewhat off to the side in that secret little corner. She gasped and flexed reflexively.

“Oh gods, I remember _this_ ,” she choked out. His fingers were finding a rhythm now, coaxed along by her noises and the way her back writhed, then arched into him. She was vaguely aware of the fact he was using his left hand. Bastard was _right-handed_. Imagine what he could wring out of her with his dominant hand.

That thought alone fired another bolt of desire straight to her sopping sex. 

Unbelievably, she was cresting already. Was it the baby hormones? Or the fact that she’d been walking around in a semi-aroused state in her own little flat for weeks, just from the way he would  _look_  at her? _That soaping in the shower…_ She stopped his hand suddenly, taking him by surprise.

“Is something wrong?”

“No…” Her voice was breathy and high and she fumbled behind her to find him. The moment her hand wrapped around his thick, rigid member, she sighed in happy relief. He was definitely ready, seemingly over the previous impediment relating to bumping baby heads with his rough and ready ways. Hurrah! 

“Please…” she was begging now. She no longer cared that she sounded that wee bit desperate for him. No more games. No more godsdamn power games. She wanted to be as close to him as humanly possible _now_.

“Now?” But he was already moving, guiding her hand still on his cock as she stroked him firm and slow. His own breath was growing ragged — yet another signal of how fully turned on he was by her impatience, which matched his own entirely. She really was _more_ now. More expressive. More responsive. More demanding. _Free._   

He rolled her gently so she was back on her side and curled into her bed, her knee hooked to expose her sweet entrance now flanked with longer rust-coloured curls. He wrapped his own leg around hers, felt the head of his cock brush then nestle against her seam, already coating him with her honey thick and effusive. Then slowly, so slowly, he entered her — a homecoming he had needed and hoped for feverishly, for what had fucking felt like an eternity. 

They both groaned. She was impossibly slick and even though he couldn’t reach her full depth, the shallow rutting of his swollen, sensitive head was creating all sorts of mischief for his self-control.

“Oh…” she gasped. Then “Ohhhh,” again. Then, “ _faster..._ "

He sped up slightly, bracing his weight on his favoured arm and probably fucking up his collarbone in the process _but he didn’t care_. His other arm reached over to her breasts, pulling her flush to him, fingers clutching her firmly so she cried out in pain and pleasure. 

She reached into the pillow, gripping it tight as her muscles clenched around him, tensing hard, chasing the wave that was so very close and yet just a touch too far…

“Petyr!” she cried out weakly. Her every muscle was tensing now, even around her eyes. _So close… so close…_  “I need!” she sobbed, and then gasped again as he shifted slightly and suddenly he filled her completely and absolutely.

And then she was clenching for dear life, a death grip on her pillow as she waited for the wave to hit. _The volley, that sweet volley…_ Her soft cries were turning to whimpers with each slam into her body. _You,_ she thought wildly, _I need you, you, you,_   _more of you, all of you… OH!_

He felt her come finally, felt her walls clamp down hard and long on his cock as her body wrung out the last of her pleasure with a long, low moan. He was swept along in the torrent of her bliss until he was coming himself, emptying every last drop deep inside her until he had nothing left to give. 

The freedom! He was fearless now. She was carrying his child already, after all. He rolled on his back, still holding her tight to him, breathless and laughing, emptied and filled, and warmed by an infinite depth of the purest kind of joy.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tremendous thank you for the time, effort, INSANE TALENT, and cheerful willingness of janedethr who was so so so kind to rush out this gorgeous artwork you see at the top of the page. 
> 
> I'm still grinning from 9 kinds of Happy because of you. xx


	28. Chapter 28

It was just as well he was practically living in Canberra now. The day of the court appearance, all he had to do was roll out of Sansa’s bed and look respectable an hour later. She had taken the day off, insisting she accompanied him as much as she was allowed to. He had been quietly, deeply appreciative.  

In the end, her attendance was the best thing for it. Joffrey had arrived with Cersei and a greek chorus of litigators. The Mountain (real name Greg) had also been in the room with a pet shark of his own. And Ramsay had been there shooting crazy eyes, poison dripping off his fangs as usual.  

And Petyr had walked in the room, hand in hand with the woman who started it all. The audio recording had predictably helped, as did the gruesome images of his injuries. But then the judge had taken one look at Sansa’s beatific face; had seen how her one hand rested sweetly on her burgeoned baby belly while the other clasped poor old man Petyr's tightly, so anxious and protective. Petyr had watched as the judge took in the way she would visibly flinch, those bambi blue eyes widening in fright whenever the two boys snarled in their general direction — even while their bevy of lawyers glowered helplessly, their careful coaching beforehand now laid to waste on the courtroom floor.   

The Mountain had fingered Ramsay for that slash. And Ramsay learnt the true meaning of friendship that morning as he watched Joffrey hand him over to his sharks. Ramsay got a year, his own lawyer too inept, outnumbered and blindsided to know what to do. Joffrey suffered some backlash — one month — even though Greg bore the brunt of both their sentences. Cersei had yelled at the judge. She got a week for contempt in court. The judge had been most unimpressed. 

Afterwards, Petyr had taken his love straight to her place. He’d lain her on the long grey couch before he’d proceeded to eat her out with great relish and enthusiasm. She'd screamed so loud, the neighbours finally gave up and started pounding the wall for a bit of shush. 

Altogether, a very good day.  

* * *

Parenting, Petyr realised, could be a competitive sport.

“Oh for crying out loud, Petyr!” complained Sansa. “It’s a _baby_. It doesn’t need a ten-thousand-dollar cot!” 

“It’s not just a cot,” he defended. “It transforms into a toddler bed!” 

“So do the rest of them,” she pointed out curtly. 

“The rest of them are fugly. This one is temperature controlled, automagically rocks the baby to sleep, monitors for SIDS risk, plays Mozart or womb sounds, AND looks like fucking art. It’s a steal.” 

“Why do you have to keep buying the Rolls Royce of everything!” Sansa grumbled. “This is like the pram all over again. It’s insane! _You’re_ insane!” 

“Darling,” he sighed, gripping her shoulders with both of his hands and shaking his head slightly. “I love you, but first of all — that pram isn’t the Rolls Royce of prams, it’s the fucking _Bugatti Veyron_ of prams.” He snorted softly to himself, rolling his eyes facetiously. “Rolls Royce…” he muttered and then smiled indulgently, his hand brushing down the length of her arm.  

“Secondly…” he continued, kissing her knuckles, "nothing but the best, alright? As far as I can, as much as is possible for me, nothing but the best.” 

“The best cot apparently costs ten million pounds and is made of solid gold.”  

“Money can’t buy class,” was the lofty retort and Sansa laughed.  

“You will spoil this child,” Sansa smiled grudgingly. “It will never understand the value of money. I can see it now. You’ll be hopeless. I’m gonna have to be bad cop. You’ll sneak chocolate and juice into your arty-farty cot when you think I’m not looking.” She pulled him in and kissed him slow and sensual, her belly pressed hard against him until the baby protested mightily with an indignant _whump._

That was happening a lot, lately. 

“I’m just worried you’re spending too much, that’s all,” Sansa admitted finally. “You’re not working right now.” 

Petyr smirked. “Just because I’m not in an office job, doesn’t mean I’m not making money. And plans.” He leaned over and kissed her softly on her temple. 

“When the time is right,” he promised her, “I’ll explain everything.” 

* * *

Sansa had planned to work right up to the week she was due, but after broaching the idea with Dr Crenshaw — who merely raised an articulate eyebrow — she decided instead to bring her maternity leave forward and stop work three weeks ahead of D-Day.

“But what if I’m early,” Sansa had reasoned with Catelyn, who quietly disapproved but was not about to stop her daughter. It was her own life, her own body, her own work leave after all.  

“All five of you were late,” was Catelyn’s reply. “Except Bran. He arrived the day he was due. Even as a newborn, he was a little… unusual.” 

“I just want the time to enjoy being 'just me' before my life gets overtaken by a tiny, demanding human being.” 

Except she wasn’t 'just her’ anymore — Petyr was part of her life now. He did the weekly trek to and from Surry Hills but over the weeks, his stay in her flat would stretch a day or two or three. And when he’d finally return to Sydney, she'd miss him as soon as he pulled out of her building. And as if sensing this, he’d call her from the car as soon as he passed the first set of traffic lights. Always.  

“Come in with me,” she nudged him one afternoon. “It’ll be fun.” 

“It’ll be awkward, you mean.”  

“Okay, it’ll be awkward. But think of the presents!” She waggled her eyebrows, and he chuckled before looking around her flat. They had done the best that they could, but the place was tiny to begin with and now it was downright squashy. Baby paraphernalia would do that to any home, he reckoned. Big, bulky things for tiny, tiny bodies — and so much of it. He doubted she’d be able to fit more in. 

Thank goodness he was sharing her bed now, at least. 

“I’d like you to come. You’re invited, you know. It’s not just for me.” 

He swept her hair from her face softly, loving the fullness of her glossy mane. _She really is glowing_ , he thought with a squeeze of his heart. _Luminous woman._

“Alright,” he acquiesced with an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, and she leaned over to kiss his stubbly cheek. 

“Oh good,” she whispered, grinning. “I really need someone to carry my crap to the car." 

* * *

She was chatting with Ros when he walked through the once-familiar double glass doors. Both women looked up and smiled at him then, relaxing his shoulders instantly. It surprised him how tense he must have been.

Sansa slipped her hand into his and gazed into his face, a soft smile touching her lips. 

“Ready?” 

“Always.” His game face was sliding back on. She leaned over and kissed him, melting him instantly like she always managed to do, and rather foiling the effort in the process. Ros beamed at them both like a proud little mama. 

“Go on, then,” Ros smiled, tilting her head towards the doors of the conference room. “They’re already digging into afternoon tea. Someone’s uncorked the champers.” 

“And my mother?” 

“Inside.” 

The room was exactly the same as he remembered it, but it felt like an age since he entered the faux-pine doorway and took his usual place near the head of the table. Always adjacent to Sansa, so their knees could touch. So he could feel the tip of her fuck-me shoe run up the inside of his leg while she looked at him coolly and grilled him on next month's media buy. Had it only been just three-quarters of a year since he was first shown into this room? When Catelyn had been professionally courteous but warm? When she introduced her prodigy and it turned out to be the woman he had buried himself in not three days ago. Who had overwhelmed his senses, raised the bar on one night stands for perpetuity, and proved the only glorious exception to his long list of rules...   

The chatter in the room didn’t exactly die when they entered, hand conspicuously in hand. But there was certainly a dip in volume as individuals sprinkled across the room recognised him. Some of them smiled and he grinned back, a little cockily for all appearances yet secretly self-conscious, if he were to be honest. He watched as Catelyn stared across the room at the both of them, her eyes trained on the blatant show of couplehood and solidarity.  

It was the first time that Sansa had ever confirmed to her mother the true nature and depth of her relationship with Petyr. It was the first time she was showing _anyone_ in her community who he was to her. Who they were to each other. 

His grip on her hand tightened. She squeezed back.  

“Welcome to your baby-shower-slash-farewell-party,” chirped Gilly before leaning in to kiss Sansa on her cheek. “And you, Petyr! Congratulations!” 

A glass of champagne was procured and promptly brought to him. He gazed at the impressive hamper of baby accoutrements sitting in the middle of the conference room like a shrine, the colourful platters of afternoon tea surrounding it like food offerings to the gods.  

_She’s wrong,_ he thought. _Of course she is loved and will be missed._

His eyes caught Catelyn’s and he raised his glass and smiled. He breathed a heck of a lot easier as Catelyn’s thin lips turned up slightly in the corner, as her own glass lifted to him in acknowledgement.  

* * *

On Saturday, they drove back to Surry Hills — the first time she’d made the trek in weeks. He braced himself for her reaction as she crossed the narrow bridge suspended over his garage to the main living room. 

“Your piano!” she exclaimed. “It’s gone!” 

“Yes it is.” 

“What did you do with it?” 

“I sold it.” 

“But you love that baby!” 

“I love this one more,” he replied, his hands slipping under her arms from behind her to wrap around her swollen belly. She leaned back against him, sighing contentedly. 

“Oh Petyr.” 

“There’s more,” he grinned. “See if you can spot them.” 

He had replaced the real fireplace with a faux one run by piped natural gas. His couches, his _chaise longue_ were no longer stark white but a slightly more practical grey not unlike her own in her little flat. The coffee table had no edges, being oval and Jarrah now, instead of asymmetrical angles and glass. She thought his changes improved the room dramatically, actually. Made the space cosier, she thought, and said as much. 

And then she saw the staircase. 

“It’s… changed!” 

“It’s no longer cantilever. I had the whole thing replaced with concrete and wood, and made the steps deeper and wider. I thought it’d look hideous, but it actually turned out alright. And at least now there aren’t any gaps for little bodies to slip right through.” 

She turned to him suddenly, her eyes wide and unreadable.  

“What is it, Sweetling?” 

“It’s just… it looks like you’re expecting bub to grow up here.” 

“Yes,” he replied simply, although his heart started to gallop.  

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” 

“Will you, if I did?” 

“But Dr Crenshaw is based in Canberra!” 

“We could stay there until after the birth. Move back here when we’re ready. You can rent your flat out. That will help you too.” 

“You’ve thought this through.” 

“I told you I’ve been planning.” 

He watched as her eyes took on a sheen, as her smile deepened and stretched across her face.  

“Packing the house while managing the baby is going to be a bitch.” 

“We’ll fling money at it,” he promised her. 

“You haven’t actually asked me the question, Petyr,” she husked. "I want to hear you say it.” 

“Sansa Stark,” he replied thus, brushing his thumb across the tops of her sweet, slim fingers. “Will you do me the honour of being my very first housemate?” 

“I’ll do better than that, you crafty, sexy man." 

Slowly she led him now, up that new spiral staircase that stole her heart. He followed willingly, his hand in hers as they both climbed up to his bedroom. The stark-white plantation shutters were still closed but the curtains were drawn back, affording them both just enough light to make out the trembling, impatient hands that now worked his shirt, his belt. His mouth found hers and felt the heat of her hunger. Her tongue darted in immediately, before she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth. He felt her grin. 

“I want you, Petyr,” she breathed, and he heard himself growl in response. He abso-fucking-lutely loved it when she told him exactly what she wanted, and that what she wanted was _him_. 

And thanks be to those blessed baby hormones, she now seemed almost perpetually,  _stonkingly_ enthusiastic. And sensitive. 

It never took much for her to maul him nowadays. Two days ago, he painted her toenails so badly, she stopped breathing from laughing so hard. Today, he showed her a new fireplace and asked her to move in with him. 

He flipped her around suddenly, pulling her back tight to him, grounding his erection into the valley between her buttocks and gods help him, she ground back into him. He clung to her and started to nibble a trail across her collarbone. He felt her knees buckle slightly. _So sensitive. Gorgeous._

“How’s your back,” he murmured. She was big now, a fact that filled him with a strange new sense of pride whenever they were out and about together. For in that belly lay the indisputable evidence to the whole godsdamn world of his little swimmers being highly effective. So primal. So caveman. Couldn’t tamp down that smug sonofabitch feeling even if he tried.  

“I wouldn’t mind a lie-down,” she admitted then. She smiled lazily as he turned her around once more to face him, walking her back into his bed until the back of her knees touched the sheets. He eased her slowly down, down, down until she lay sprawled in the centre. As hooded with desire as her eyes were, he also read her tiredness in them. She was carrying and growing a sizeable bowling ball in her body, after all.  

“Feeling achy?” he checked tenderly, brushing her hair away from her face and tucking it behind both her ears.    

“A good romp will cure it,” she grinned optimistically, then sighed as he worked her knit dress over her head. He tossed her bra, then swept his eyes over her body, taking in her heavy, swollen breasts, her large pregnant belly, skin drawn tight and still glowing from all that moisturiser he helped apply earlier today.  

Never, in a million years, did he ever think he’d look at a naked woman swollen with his child and think her the most ravishing creature. 

“I have a small surprise for you,” he remembered suddenly, and dived to the corner of the bed to fumble for the box in the side table. Her eyes widened when he finally pulled it out of the box and held it up to her. As soon as he worked out the button to turn it on, her smile grew lusty. 

“Is that what I think it is?” 

“What do you think it is?” 

“Why don’t you show me.” She actually fluttered her eyelashes.  

He laughed. And then he parted her legs and pressed his nose to her centre, to her entrance. She gave a long, contented sigh when he pressed his lips to her seam, already marked by the damp slit on the cloth of her panties. 

Slowly, his fingers dug into the band on either side of her hips, taking his time as he tugged them down, then off her. She bucked slightly when his hand brushed across her centre again, her thighs parting slightly as she heard the whisper-quiet whirr of the motor within the dark navy shaft he held in his hand.  

“Quim,” he said suddenly, tone conversational as if listing off the planets. “ _Your Sex_ is… meh. Pussy, I’ve never liked saying. Cunt, well, that’s just rude. And then Vagina just sounds like a fucking horrible name given to the spinster girl in the 18th century, the one that always gets stuck playing the piano. ‘Play _Mr Beveridge’s Maggot_ , Vagina!’ Fucking repulsive.” 

“Petyr,” she was laughing now, “what the _hell_ are you talking about!” 

 He grinned. “Quim,” he decided then and there. “I’ll start calling this your quim.” 

“What are —“ 

“I’m about to make your quim tremble, my darling.”  

With the dial set low, he brushed the wand across her body — softly around her neck, down down down the centre of her breasts before teasing each nipple, the hum of his wand just enough to titillate and cause some interest. He skirted around her belly, glancing off her waist... 

He brushed the seam of her _quim_ , the lips flanking her entrance already dark and plump with desire. She had gone full Brazilian after work yesterday “to tidy up the business end”, she’d explained. And he was the beneficiary now, her _quim_ suddenly bare and innocent, her folds so easily accessible. He brushed the length of her seam before resting the bulb of the vibrator _there_ , just above her sweet little bud. He pressed it to her body so it rumbled in her flesh, then clicked the button, ramping the intensity up by a notch. 

There was a silence before her head dropped back and she let out a small, low moan. Oh _gods!_ she wanted to call out. _This feels amazing._ She was horrendously, embarrassingly wet already, she knew. She could feel herself seeping, seeping. As if hearing her thoughts, his thumb brushed her entrance right then and she gasped as he wet her nub. The wand, the vibrator, was still agonisingly close, _but not close enough_. 

“Faster,” she murmured breathily. “Up one! Please! I want to feel it!” And then she moaned again as he acquiesced, as the intensity of that exquisite rumble jumped yet another notch. And then he moved that bulbous head down just a fraction so it now settled right on her clit. 

She bucked her hips then, she couldn’t help it. Desire coursed through her as she heard his groan. She felt him press the vibrator more firmly into her bone, until every last nerve deep within her felt that glorious, persistent hum. 

“Are you watching me?” she managed to gasp. She couldn’t see him lying down. Her tummy was in the way of course, and he was partially hidden. It was frustrating.  

“I want to see you,” she panted slightly, starting to crest just a little. “I want to watch you watching me.” 

Another groan from him, and she smiled in triumph — then hissed as he upped another notch 

He was on his knees now, his eyes heavy and laced with latent passion. He reached over for cushions, pillows. Anything to ruck up under her bottom. She understood immediately, knowing exactly what he needed. It was what she wanted too. She reached behind her and tossed him all the pillows she could lay her hands on before dropping her head back again. Somehow, she managed to squirm to the edge of the bed without ever breaking contact with that wicked, magical trembling shaft. 

He squeezed the button and the vibrator jumped two notches. 

She cried out then. His grip was shifting now, and the bulb of the wand was moving around her.  

“Stop right there!” she cried out suddenly. “Don’t MOVE!” And she felt him freeze. That angle. A litany of profane, profane words ran across her mind. 

“Oh _gods_ ,” she choked out. Her knee jerked slightly and she started to moan again. She was mumbling now, a little incoherent. Snatches of words depicting desire and a dozen dirty, _filthy_ thoughts.  

In the distance, she heard the sound of his buckle, the shucking of his jeans as he struggled out of them. In the effort, his grip on the wand changed again and the newness of the angle on her clit made her entire body clench. Her toes pointed, every fibre of her body seemingly yearning, stretching, _reaching_ for that intangible, sweet relief just barely within reach... 

He upped the intensity again, that bastard. That sweet, sweet bastard… oh! 

“I need _you!_ ” she was keening now. She needed that particular fullness, that feeling of being filled utterly while her quim, her clit, her entire 18th-century piano-playing vagina trembled from that relentless little vibe.  

“Petyr!” she was crying out now. “Did you hear me!”  

“Yes,” he replied huskily, and then he slammed himself into her. 

“Hhhho, YESSS!” she sobbed, and then clenched around him helplessly as his thumb leaned once again on that sweet, sweet wand. He jammed his thumb down until that shaft was thrumming strong and constant, the hum now a continuous tone, the buzz, that rumble deep and persistent until she imagined it sending waves all the way to her tailbone.  

“Your quim,” he was saying, his voice dark and hoarse. “Your sex, your quim, your good, slick quim…” She was on the edge now, skimming along, her mind, her body, her soul searching for release. 

Whether he shifted the wand deliberately or lost his grip in his distraction, she didn’t really know. But the head moved down, the angle of that gorgeous bulb suddenly hitting her right where she needed it most. And then it came like a large, rolling tide. Like the biggest, baddest wave. She felt herself clench down hard on him still buried deep inside her, and heard him make a sound she’d never heard him make before. Her throat was almost sore from strangling her own cry until she released the primal sounds of her desire. Until she was a crying, laughing, shaking, liquid mess. 

“Oh Petyr,” she laughed breathily as she floated back down to earth, “let’s do that again some time.” The baby rummaged around her for ages before it let her drop off to a dreamless sleep.  

* * *

They had stopped at the small hidden café, just an hour out of Sydney on the M5.  She had need of the bathroom there, of course. That little tyke had a tendency to sit right on her bladder and then _lean_ …

She had felt a bit of dampness then, but had thought nothing of it. 

About an hour and a quarter left to Canberra, Sansa suddenly turned to him with eyes wide as saucers. 

“Petyr,” she squeaked. “I think my waters are breaking!" 


	29. Chapter 29

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/40134485212/in/dateposted-public/)

This time when the wave hit, she definitely grimaced. Her left hand gripped the handle of her door and she sat on her right hand and focused on breathing. 

“How many minutes this time?” 

There was a long pause as she squeezed her eyes. “Not that many,” she admitted finally when she felt ready enough to speak normally. Both of them turned just then, locking eyes just as they were each stealing a glance at the other.  

“I thought the birth centre said it was going to be hours and hours,” Sansa accused. “This isn’t hours!” 

“No,” agreed Petyr quietly. The car sped up again. They were averaging fifteen kilometres above the speed limit now. Fuck, but he was torn. Should he speed up and risk an accident or getting pulled over by the cops? Or drive at the limit and risk pulling over to deliver this baby by the roadside. Somehow, Petyr didn’t feel so confident about seeking guidance from Siri on delivering a baby solo at the side of the Federal Highway.  

“Still heading back to your place first?” 

“We'd have to. Hospital bag is still in the house. And that nurse said a ward isn’t ready till six, remember?” 

Petyr could feel his agitation rising at the thought. _If they dared offer anything less than the care she deserved…_ “They might just have to find a room, if your contractions are coming at this rate,” he growled. "What are they going to do if you come in early — tell you to close your legs?”  

“A bit late for that,” Sansa grinned, sneaking a sidelong peek at Petyr. It worked. He gave a short bark of laughter and it broke the tension like it were brittle glass. 

“I’d much rather pant and struggle at home, to be honest.” She stroked her fingers down his arm. "Let’s just go home.”  

They sat in silence once again, hearts in turmoil. He reached over for her and felt immediately comforted as she slipped her hand into his. She sighed deeply and he felt better.  

And then another rolled in.   

She groaned, she couldn’t help it. She tried to bite as much of that back but it had come like a giant wave. Her body spasmed long and hard, taking her breath away. Her shoes slammed into the mat in front of her and she pressed the ball of her feet against the floor of the car so hard, she could almost imagine her legs going right through it. 

“Not your house, then.” 

“No,” she finally gasped.  

_Fuck the cops_ , thought Petyr. He put his foot down and the car surged forward. 

* * *

“Six centimetres!” announced the midwife merrily, like Sansa had received some sort of prize.

“Is that all?!” Sansa wailed. “Six centimetres!” Gods. Just barely halfway! The air-conditioning in this place. Hopeless. She could feel a sheen of sweat at the back of her neck. Why is it so hot in here! And why is Petyr still in his jacket! Is he mad? TAKE IT OFF! 

“Six is good!” beamed the midwife proudly. “Most women would kill to dilate as quickly as you have.” 

Another wave was rolling in and Sansa whined. “Not again!” she whimpered before she tensed, her feet pressing against the board at the end of the bed. She focused everything on it, imagining it snapping backwards, bending the metal railing behind it. Petyr was telling her over and over to breathe and she could barely hear him. Her brain felt like a goo of molasses wrapped in migraine and struck repeatedly by lightning.  

“Where’s that pain relief!” Petyr snapped. “We asked for it ages ago! Could you please check on that? And this time,” he gritted, “something stronger than paracetamol, perhaps?" 

“Well, we could always try gas again…” 

“Gas sucks!” announced Sansa. “Or blows, I can’t decide. It doesn’t work for me.” She looked at the floor and tried to will herself to get back down and pace again, but her legs quaked just thinking about it. _You can’t lie on your back forever,_ her mind chided. _They say to keep moving._

She groaned. 

“Get her the big one!”  

“I thought you wanted to do without any, Ms Stark.” The midwife looked almost put out by the change of heart. 

Petyr took one look at Sansa’s stricken face and bristled. 

“Get her the epidural,” he commanded quietly, his voice deceptively mellifluous, an undercurrent of menace unmistakeable. “Please.” 

The midwife pinched her lips and tutted slightly. “It comes with a big needle,” she warned, then looked at Petyr’s face mottled now with barely contained fury. "I’ll see what I can do,” she added hastily, and then brightened. “I’ll get some morphine!” 

“That is not—Where’s Dr Crenshaw!” Petyr snapped. 

“She’s in theatre,” cooed the midwife. “She’ll be along shortly. She knows about you.”  

And Lauren the Midwife left the room, the last notes of a cheerful tuneless hum all they could hear as she waltzed down the corridor before the door shut behind her. 

“What the fuck was that!” 

“A believer,” Sansa sighed. “Talisa warned me about how some midwives can be. She’s met all sorts as a nurse.” She stroked his arm soothingly. “You don’t have to be so rude.”  

“She doesn’t listen to you. She treats you like a child.” 

“She does a bit.” 

“I don’t like that at all.” 

She pulled him towards her and kissed him soundly on his lips. “Thank you, Papa Bear,” she smiled, then paused and narrowed her eyes. “Could you please take off your jacket? You’re making me perspire just looking at you!" 

Then she gripped his forearm suddenly and squeezed a death grip until her nails left purple crescents and Petyr had to close his throat from yelping in pain. That one, Petyr knew, had been a fucking long, fierce one. 

* * *

_WHERE. THE FUCK. IS EVERYBODY!_

* * *

“You’re here!” Sansa croaked. The relief in her voice was unmistakeable and mirrored Petyr’s sentiments exactly. 

“I am! Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. It’s a full moon or something. Babies everywhere! Right!” Dr Crenshaw snapped up the chart. “Where are you up to?” 

As if to answer her, Sansa’s body spasmed spectacularly as she groaned deep and hard and long. 

“I’m ba~ack!” sang Lauren the Midwife and Petyr thought he saw a flash of irritation cross Dr Crenshaw’s face.  

“Rummaging,” the doctor announced almost apologetically before she slipped inside. Sansa squeezed her eyes and tensed expectantly but miraculously it was nothing like that searing pain that robbed her breath and watered her eyes whenever Lauren did it. 

“I brought the morphine!” 

“We didn’t ask for bloody morphine,” snarled Petyr petulantly and Dr Crenshaw gave Lauren a look that could petrify a basilisk. Another wave, mere seconds apart from the last and Sansa yelled. There was no other word for it. 

Dr Crenshaw sighed. “I hate to break this to you, Sansa. But you’re nine centimetres, almost ten—“ 

“—which means it’s too late for painkillers!” Lauren practically sang. “You can do it! I know you can!” 

And all Sansa could do was shake her head from side to side, tears wetting the corners of her eyes. Another wave hit her. 

And then the indescribable urge to push.  

“I want to push!” Sansa blurted out, surprised. Her eyes were still squeezed shut. 

“No,” barked Lauren’s voice. “You can’t want to, not yet!”   

“Don’t-fucking-tell-her-how-she-feels-about-pushing! She-Says-She-Wants-To-Push-So-Take-Her-Fucking-Word-For-It!” Petyr. 

“Mr Baelish…” Dr Crenshaw’s cool voice. “Perhaps you can hold Sansa’s hand. Wipe her forehead, or… something. Stand over there. You can still see everything.” 

“NOOOOOO!” Sansa cried, panic rising. “Don’t look!” 

“Wha—“ 

“Can you really see everything?!” Another wave as she dug deep and bellowed.  

“Okay dear,” cooed Lauren. “Not so loud, hmmm? Conserve all that good sound energy for the actual pushing, okay?” 

“SHE’LL YODEL IF IT FUCKING MAKES HER HAPPY, ALRIGHT!” 

“Petyr,” Sansa gripped his hand, “can you see everything?” 

“Why?” 

“Don’t look, okay?” She tightened her fingers. “PLEASE." 

“Okay, okay… but what's the matter, Sweetling?” He kissed her knuckles, her hands fisted so tight they were white. Her eyes were closed, but now they flew open and stared at him desperately. 

“Because!” she moaned. “I don’t want you to see! It’s going to be like watching your favourite pub burn dooooooowwwwwnnnn!” 

Dr Crenshaw bit her lip. Hard. 

“The next contraction, Sansa,” came the good doctor's steady voice. “Push with the next contraction. Ready? Deep breath. And go…” 

A searing pain but with it such a strange sense of relief. Sansa felt her body bear down and for a long minute there, as she pushed with muscles she never knew she could engage until now, she existed in a sweet sort of vacuum where nothing else remained except her and this baby. There was a peace. Sansa took Lauren's advice and was silent. 

“I see hair!” Petyr’s beautiful, excited voice. _Bloody liar. He looked._

“Good,” Dr Crenshaw’s voice, a note of approval. “Now wait for the next wave. And when it hits, give it all you got, girl.” 

And she did.  

The moment she heard that little cry, a joy most indescribable gushed like a fountain into the room and filled her heart to overflowing.  

* * *

“How about… Alayne?”

Sansa raised her eyebrow. “Really? My Tyndyr name? Isn’t that kinda… bordering on the kinky?” 

He smiled then.  

“Alayne’s my mother’s name.” 

“Oh!” And Sansa flushed. It was strange, really. He had touched the innermost parts of her, heard her most intimate sounds and thoughts, and watched as she brought their child into the world. And yet she never knew her name. 

“So wait. You hit on a woman with your _mother’s name_? Now _that’s_ twisted." 

He brushed a finger lightly over the forehead of his sleeping daughter. She had his dark hair. Fancy that.  

“I didn’t click on your profile for ages, precisely because you had my mother’s name. But in the end, I couldn’t go past you without saying hello. And it’s funny,” he added, his voice getting gruff, “but in a way, I quite like the continuation. It’s a little like passing down a name over generations.” 

“Sabyne Alayne Stark. I like it,” replied Sansa and kissed his temple. 

* * *

Sansa watched the moment her mother turned into a grandmother.

“She’s beautiful,” Catelyn whispered for the thousandth time. Sabyne had made her way around the room twice now. Bran and Rickon had a perfunctory turn before nicking off to the vending machines. Ned had walked the halls and rocked his granddaughter to sleep before passing her to his wife.  

Catelyn had held Sabyne for an hour and looked nowhere near ready to place her back in her bassinet. Sansa half wondered if her mother was going to whisk Sebbie away for the weekend. Knowing her, it was actually a distinct possibility.  

Sabyne. Sebbie. Seb. Sansa wasn’t used to any of those names yet.  

“I just wished I was there to help you through the birth,” Catelyn sighed for the umpteenth time. Lauren popped into their room just then and Sansa found herself tensing. But she held out her arm dutifully and waited as Lauren took her blood pressure, still humming tunelessly. 

“You were my only chance you know. Arya’s probably never going to be a mother.” 

“I might have other babies one day,” Sansa replied mildly. Catelyn brightened. 

“Are you saying I can be your birth partner then?” 

“Not necessarily,” Petyr answered gruffly. Sansa willed herself not to react or steal a glance at him. Catelyn deflated immediately, scowling slightly. 

“It just seemed to happen so fast. Are you sure you didn’t wait until the very last minute to call me?” 

“We were rather distracted, mother. It wasn’t like it was deliberate. We were racing to get to the hospital before I had Sabyne in the car, for crying out loud!” 

Catelyn sighed dramatically. “It’s just so strange, that’s all. All of you were late. And I always laboured for hours and hours on end." 

“What a strange thing to say,” laughed Lauren suddenly. “I mean, isn’t it obvious? Sansa’s not you!” 

* * *

They had disabled the doorbell so it was a while before Petyr noticed the text messages and ambled out of the room, bleary-eyed. Ah yes, he could hear it now — the soft knocking on the thick wooden door.

“You look like hell,” Tyrion pronounced before holding up a five-hundred-dollar bottle of champers and a carton of beer. “Welcome to Fatherhood!” 

“Thanks,” Petyr smiled, relieving his friend of the booze before placing them on the kitchen counter. The fridge was full now. They had received a steady stream of cooked dinners from Sansa’s colleagues and Catelyn alike. It was all rather touching yet logistically challenging. Like playing Tupperware Tetris.  

“Wife and child asleep?” 

“She’s not my wife. And yes. Sabyne is finally asleep. Who the hell invented the saying, ‘sleep like a baby’ anyway? That’s just fucking not funny.” 

“It’ll get better. And you’re an old fart, don’t forget.” 

Petyr sighed deeply, then stretched his arms towards the ceiling until he felt a few crackles and pops. He watched as Tyrion pulled out two longnecks from the carton and fished out a bottle opener from his Swiss Army knife. Petyr shook his head. 

“I promised myself I’d take my first drink with Sansa, once she stops breastfeeding.” 

“Empathy Teetotaling. I approve.” Tyrion raised his bottle to Petyr and drank to their health. “So… you’ve got the kid and the woman you love. Are you going to make it official?” 

“You mean marriage?” Petyr clarified, and Tyrion raised his eyebrow expectantly. “You’re almost as bad as Catelyn.” 

“Except I’m not asking out of some old-fashioned sense of propriety. Petyr, you _adore_ the woman.” 

“And I don’t need the cert to prove it. Plus,” Petyr sighed heavily, “there’s the matter of Sansa’s trust fund.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Catelyn told me a while ago that as soon as Sansa marries someone outside of their approved list, she forfeits her trust fund.” 

Tyrion gave a long, low whistle. “That’s… pretty medieval." 

“That’s the Starks.” 

“Don’t you think that horse has already bolted from the stable? You’re both playing house. You’re practically _de facto_ smug marrieds.” 

“There’s no contract.” 

“You and I know that’s bullshit. What’s the real deal, Baelish. Tell Uncle Ty.” 

“I told you. Her trust fund. That hefty chest of money is nothing to sneeze at. I don’t feel like I can make such demands of her.” 

“Why don’t you let her be the judge of that, at least? She’s a grown woman. She’s lived with that dangling over her head her whole life. Don’t you figure she’s already made her choice, seeing how she’s sticking with you anyway, you old bastard.” 

And Petyr had to allow him that win. The corner of his mouth curled up, even as his hand went to his goatee, absently smoothing the hairs on his chin as he mulled. 

“How do you know?” Petyr finally asked. The question came suddenly, quietly. Tyrion took a long swig. 

“How do I know…” 

“With Shae. How did you know you had to be with her… you know… ‘till death do you part’. Etcetera.” 

“When being with her was so much better than being without her.” 

“What the hell kind of answer is that!” 

“More profound than you think. No bullshit now — what’s really stopping you?” 

“I’m a bastard,” Petyr shrugged. “What can I say?” 

“You’re afraid you’ll cheat someday?” 

“I don’t know. Something like that.” The sting of that admission surprised even Petyr. For a split second, he really hated his own nature. He had hurt her once before. He couldn’t bear to hurt her again. But could he even help himself?  

There was a long pause after that. The sound of a new bottle cap popping open as Tyrion started another one and took a long, thoughtful swig. 

“You know,” he began finally. “A wise man once said: the stud isn’t the man who can satisfy a thousand women. Rather, it's the man who can satisfy the same woman ten thousand times.” 

Petyr snorted. “You just made that one up, short fuck. Wise man my ass.” 

“Okay. I made that one up. But I’m not wrong.” 

And Petyr fell silent once more. Tyrion sighed. 

“Baelish… can you live without this woman?” 

“That scenario fucking scares the living _crap_ out of me.” 

“Okay then,” Tyrion grinned. “So you _do_ know what to do!” Tyrion raised his bottle to his friend.  

“Go make an honest man of yourself, Petyr Baelish.” 

* * *

She woke up suddenly, jerking awake. She reached for her mobile and rubbed the home button, her eyes focusing eventually to read the time. Three forty-two. Sabyne was due to feed at four. Perfect timing.

Sansa’s eyes adjusted to the dark as she struggled to remember what had happened before she fell dead asleep. Sabyne had taken ages to settle after her feed and Petyr had taken her off Sansa’s hands, patting her on his shoulder as he sauntered out the door. 

She looked over to the armchair in her bedroom and realised he was in it, sound asleep. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, and Seb was lying on her front, fast asleep on her father’s chest, tiny legs bunched under her. 

Sansa’s heart melted. Even with the moonlight, it was far too dark to take a snapshot with her phone. She watched them for a minute or four, burning the image in her mind and engraving the scene onto her heart. 

They were family.  

Another trickle. Sansa sighed.  

No one told her how unglamorous and messy postpartum life could be. The pulled muscles. The stitches. The super-thick maternity pads that brought her right back to braces and high school. The perpetual bleeding as the uterus contracted. The sharp twinges of pain that sometimes came with that. 

She felt the bed and cursed as she realised she’d soaked right through to the mattress. 

“Mmmmm?” she heard Petyr stir. 

“I need to change the sheets,” she murmured, annoyed. As if they both weren’t already sleep-deprived. She stood up gingerly, and felt another gush. And then another. 

She moved as quick as she could to the ensuite bathroom.  

And then it happened.

“Petyr!” she cried into the dark of the room. 

He startled. That note in her voice. _Fear._ Something in him turned icy. He pressed Sabyne close to him as he stood in one fluid motion and moved in three strides to the bathroom. 

Her blood. So much of it. It was everywhere. _Everywhere_. And Sansa was out cold on the floor.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That amazing image was done on the fly by Anya, one of the regular readers of this fic. She knocked it up one morning, like "Lalala MADZ PHOTOSHOP SKILLZ, PETYR CRADLING HIS BEWDIFUL BABY SABYNE... aaaaaannnnd TA-DA!" 
> 
> Such crazy, crazy talent. O be still, my heart! xx


	30. Chapter 30

 

 

She drifts back. There is a man in front of her dressed in blue, and he’s the one that won’t stop talking. The noise seeps gradually into her ears and it’s Sabyne, screaming at the top of her lungs while the man looms over her instead, telling her to stay awake. It’s all rather topsy-turvy. 

_Stay awake!_

The floor, the tiles are cold. The bathroom feels like a freezing fridge and the blanket of sleep is heavy, so heavy. Her eyelids feel like weights, pulling down to close like thick heavy drapes but the man will not stop talking. She wants to frown, but even that feels exhausting.   

_Sabyne, she wants to feed…_ But her body feels like it’s pasted to the ground. _Bring her to me anyway._

_Petyr!_ His face floats in front of her. His eyes are blown wide and anxious, his mouth downturned and pinched, and even though he tries to hide it, she knows immediately that he is afraid. And if he’s afraid, _she's_ afraid. _Petyr!_ She wills her lips to move but her throat will not engage and anyway, she’s slipping back into the dark because it’s so much more comfortable there. 

* * *

They’re moving now, and it feels fast. It’s white everywhere. White and bright and cold and rude. Her eyes are skinny, skinny slits.

_Petyr._

She tries to open her mouth but no one seems to be noticing. She doesn’t see anybody either. There are blankets on her, and they’re heavy and useless. Her entire body feels like lead and ice.  _I could sleep like the dead for days. I’m cold. I’m so, so cold._

“Ma’am, don’t sleep.” Someone shakes her and it feels unkind. "You _cannot_ sleep, do you hear me? You cannot let yourself fall asleep if you want to stay alive! Do you understand me? Can you hear me?” 

_I’m cold. I’m so cold. I’m so so cold._

She thinks she hears something about acute haemorrhaging. That sounds important and scary.  

Her eyes are closing but she remembers the man and wills her eyes to prise back open. But she’s tired. So weak, so boneless, and so, so tired. 

* * *

A jolt, and this time she opens her eyes more fully. She’s moving. She’s flat on her back, and she doesn’t recognise a soul. They’re shooting off strings of commands she doesn’t understand. A male nurse is talking to her and she cannot hear him. She doesn’t understand.

She hears a baby crying. No — _screaming_.   

_Petyr._

But no one hears. Try again. 

_Petyr!_ But it’s only a whisper and things are moving quickly. These people around her she doesn’t know are moving quickly. 

But then he comes into view. “She’s saying something!” he calls out excitedly. No — urgently. Even as they move, the harsh fluorescent light overhead seems to sharpen his cheekbones and hollow his eyes. He looks gaunt. Haggard. Like he’s aged ten years since last night. _My love._

Someone shines a torch in her eyes but she hardly reacts. She is glued to this moving bed. Her body has melted into it.   

“You’re going to be okay,” he murmurs. She can hardly hear him, from all the noise around them. She feels his hand on her face and it's almost painful with its searing heat. She uses the hand on his face to remember to stay awake. She tries to focus on the way each part of his hand touches her skin and reminds her that she is still alive. 

_Stay awake. If you want to live, stay awake._

_Seb. Sebbie._

“You’re here now, you’re going to be okay…” 

_My baby..._

“Sabyne’s right here. Sh… she’ll be fine. Ssshhhh… you’re going to be alright.” The way he says it. It’s not a statement of fact so much as a wish. A desperate hope. A prayer, even though he doesn’t believe. 

Sabyne is crying her little heart out. She sounds almost hoarse, her cries turning into mewls. But Petyr is still here, right beside her.  

And she’s so relieved he’s here. That they’re both right here with her. She wants to laugh but she can’t. She wants to tell him, but she can’t. _You darling. My One True North. You are more than enough._

He looks dreadful and she knows it’s the face of true, selfless love. _Poor darling. Don’t look so scared._

_I’m scared, Petyr. Don’t look so scared._

“Ssssso cold…” she finally whispers, a ghost of herself, and this is what he hears. She knows he heard her because his eyes light up in panic.  

“Mummy…” 

“I’ve called her, my heart. Of course.” 

And Sansa wants to crack a smile, except there isn’t energy left for even that. _Thank you._  She feels the back of his hand stroke her cheek and it gives her immeasurable comfort. She wants him to stay with her forever.  

And then,  

“I love you, Sansa. So, _so_ much.” And words so sweet have never sounded so sinister.  

She closes her eyes and remembers nothing more. 

* * *

Dr Au looks far too girlish to be boss of the ER, with her small fine features set almost too close together on a heart-shaped face. She looks light enough to blow over in an autumn breeze but she’s staring down the paramedic as he’s rattling off what he knows.

Now she’s gliding over to Petyr, a determined look in her eye. She’s firing questions and he’s doing his best to answer them, all while still jiggling Sabyne in vain, all while everyone else in the room is rushing about. They barely hear her squalling, it seems. The only sound in their heads is that of too much time slipping away. They’re wheeling things to Sansa's bed, they’re sticking needles into her. And the doctor asks her twenty questions in her clear, calm voice.  

_Sir, can you tell us what happened? How long before the ambulance arrived? How long before you discovered her? How much blood, would you say? Has this happened before? How long since the birth? She was a patient here? Who was her doctor?_

That part is easy enough. He answers as best as he can, even with Sabyne going hysterical now after a very small calm. _Just wait, darling. Just wait…_ Once he mentions Dr Crenshaw, things happen there as well. A nurse pipes up and swears up and down she saw Dr Crenshaw around an hour ago. This earns the nurse a brief smile from the willowy Dr Au.    

The rest of the questions, however. 

No, he doesn’t know much about her history. Or her family’s. But then comes the kicker.  

“Are you her husband?”  

“No.” 

“Her partner?” 

“Yes. We live together.” But he pauses, and Dr Au’s spidey senses kick into gear. 

“Are you in a position to give consent?” 

“Consent?” 

The door slams open behind him and Dr Crenshaw enters the room looking like she had broken into a run. She barely notices Petyr, but a flood of relief fills his insides as if a dam of emotions just burst. Dr Au suddenly switches gears and is rattling off in tongues at a hundred miles an hour, dispensing entirely with Hellos. 

“...blood pressure is 80/50, she’s tachycardic, pale, and diaphoretic. Uterine fundus at umbilical level, looks to be uterine subinvolution. On pelvic exam, cervix noted to be open, was able to evacuate ballpark 500cc of blood clots with noted intermittent relaxation of uterine fundus. Uterus responds to vigorous massage. Methylergometrine 125 mcg intramuscular given, doing continuous uterine massage. Already started double line of D5LR and PNSS, large bore, ordered labs for CBC, official blood typing and cross matching of initial 3 units of fresh whole blood and packed red blood cells. Plan, if okay with you, is for STAT ultrasound, check for retained secundines. Patient on NPO, OR on standby, for possible curettage…” 

“OR?” Petyr blurts, “as in, Operating Room?” 

Both women turn to him then. Dr Au frowns as if suddenly remembering what she came for before. 

“The patient—Miss Stark is unconscious, sir. We urgently need to start a blood transfusion. And yes, possibly even surgery, if we don’t like what the ultrasound shows us. Are you in a position to sign off on her paperwork or not?” 

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head in sheer frustration and helplessness.  

“No.” 

There is no time. Clutching Sabyne to him, Petyr steps through the doors almost before Dr Au can utter the words. His eyes fall on the first group of people to stick out in that room and it’s exactly the people he needs to see. 

“Ned — _Catelyn_! They need you in there _now!_ ” 

* * *

He wanders back up to the maternity ward and miraculously, after he manages to stutter a broken phrase or two about Sansa, both midwives behind the counter spring into action. One fishes out a spare bag of breast milk from the fridge behind them and briskly works to warm it up, while the other takes Sabyne from Petyr gently. 

“Okay, Daddy. You sit down for a little while, alright? I got her.”  

And Petyr sinks into the waiting room chair and rubs his face in his hands. _Oh gods, what a night._ His heart is still pounding like a humongous Japanese drum in his ears. He looks down and realises he's still in his silk pyjama pants, Sansa’s dried blood on his knees and down the shins where he had knelt beside her, hoping to _gods_ she wasn’t… 

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the horror to abate. His chest is actually hurting.  _Oh gods, oh gods please protect her. Don’t you fucking dare claim her tonight. Oh please, not now. Not ever. Not tonight. Not when we've just started. Please, I’m begging now._

His phone chirps. _Where R U?_

_Upstairs. Maternity._

He stands up a little too quickly and comes to regret it immediately. _Wouldn’t that be funny,_ he wonders sardonically. _Both of us dropping like flies tonight._

_“_ Petyr?” 

“Ros!” And he’s so, _so_ thankful when she grabs him in a bear-hug and holds him tight. They stand like this for a full half-minute before he reluctantly pulls away. 

“Where’s Sabyne?” 

“Getting fed at last, poor kid.” Petyr sighs. “Already failing on the parenting front—I have no boobs.” It is a very weak joke and Ros almost misses it. She clicks her tongue in sympathy instead. 

“Is it very bad?” she’s almost afraid to ask, and he pauses before he finally nods, the gesture alone such a painful, frightening admission. 

_Please, I’m still begging._

“They’re saying it’s a secondary postpartum haemorrhage. Sh… she’s lost a lot of blood.” 

“How much, do you know…” 

“Almost two litres.” 

“TWO LI—oh my _gods_ , Petyr!” And her hand flies to her mouth in shock. Belatedly, he remembers that Ros had worked with Sansa for years and has her own relationship with her. _Of course this affects Ros too._

“Do they need to operate?” 

“Maybe.” He sighs deeply. The other question hangs in the air unsaid. The one about mortality and the kind of hell on earth he never wants to contemplate. Except, maybe now, he has to. 

The thought alone physically _hurts_.  

“For now, if I understand half of what they were talking about in that emergency room, they’re going to try and do without. But who knows. I certainly don’t.” 

A shadow darkens the door of the waiting room and one of the midwives is holding a sleeping Sabyne on her shoulder.  

“I have to go now,” she almost apologises to Petyr. “But she guzzled almost two bottles and then fell fast asleep. Poor darlin’! But she’s a contented bubba now.” 

Petyr gives his quiet thanks profusely even as the midwife waves him off airily, smiling beatifically. 

_They’re angels, really,_  thinks Petyr. _Most of the time._

* * *

He returns to the waiting room just outside Emergency to find Ned pacing the halls. Catelyn looks wan, every muscle on her face drawn tight. She perks up immediately when she spots Petyr.

“You’re still here!” 

“I had to feed Sabyne somehow. The nurses upstairs, they helped.” 

Ros and Catelyn exchange short hellos. If Catelyn is surprised to see her office receptionist at the hospital providing moral support, she wisely doesn’t say so.  

“Any more word?” he asks anxiously, and Catelyn shakes her head, frustrated.  

“They’re doing the ultrasound and they will know from there, hopefully, what the cause is.” 

“If it turns out that it’s because of negligence, you should get them, Daddy!” It is then that Petyr notices a diminutive lady slouching on a chair and scowling hard. The Human Rottweiler, Petyr guesses immediately, must be Sansa’s younger sister. 

“You must be Arya.” He extends his free hand, his other still holding Sabyne close to him in the crook of his arm. But she does not take it. 

“I know who _you_ are." 

“Arya!” hisses her mother. “Not now!" 

“Why the hell not? Sansa wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for _him!_ ” 

Petyr straightens his back abruptly. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep or the constant anxiety just bobbing under the surface like a shark, but _that stung_. 

“Arya,” warns Ned’s tired voice behind Petyr. “This isn’t Petyr’s fault.” 

And suddenly Arya’s eyes fill up and she turns away quickly. 

So he is not alone on the crazy emotional roller coaster, then. Petyr relaxes a fraction as he suddenly understands her.  

He sinks into the chair two seats away from her, thankful to lean his elbow on the armrest. Arya glances over now and then, but doesn’t make any moves to touch her niece. 

“Wanna hold her?” he asks, his eyes still straight ahead and staring unseeing at the silent television screen hanging down from the ceiling. 

Arya shrugs. “Whatever.” 

“Well,” he continues conversationally, "I need to see a man about a dog.” 

“Toilets are that way, towards the left.” 

“Thank you.” He stands up then, and even though Ros is right there and eminently more comfortable around babies, he bends down and places Sabyne gently in the crook of Arya’s arm. 

“I’ll be back,” he tells no one in particular, and takes his leave. He turns to look behind just as he rounds the corner and smirks when he see Arya brush Sabyne’s feather-soft hair away from her face. 

_No matter how awful things have turned out, Sabyne is no mistake,_ thinks Petyr fiercely.  

* * *

Finally, he flicks on the phone and pulls up a browser. He grimaces, his thumb poised over the screen until he finally brings up the keyboard and types “secondary postpartum haemorrhage”.

Stories. It is the stories he reads the most. He reads pages and pages and forums and forums of women who nearly died and lived to tell. One was even pronounced dead before she was suddenly brought back to life. Bloody miracle. 

It should fill him with fucking hope, these stories. Testimonials all to the great advancements in modern medicine. But instead, he holds up his left hand and realises it's shaking like a leaf in the last day of autumn.  

* * *

“You need to take her home, Petyr. The hospital is no place for a baby.”

He bristles immediately, even though he knows that Catelyn is right. But every cell in his body revolts at the idea. _I need to be here._   

“I need to be with Sansa.” 

“We’re here. She has us.” Catelyn cocks her head. She looks sympathetic but he recognises the set of her jaw. 

He shakes his head anyway. “I can’t be away from her. I want to be here when she wakes up.” 

“We don’t know when that’s going to even happen!” Or _if_. The words hang in the air, but the Starks are not going there right now and neither will he.  

“Petyr,” Ned’s low voice is chiming in with his wife’s now. “It’s part and parcel of being a responsible parent. You need to care for your daughter too.” 

“As we will care for ours,” adds Catelyn, driving her point home with a blunt two-by-four. The muscle in Petyr’s jaw twitches. He blinks.  

“Come on, Pete,” Ros soothes. “I’ll walk to the car with you.”  

_No_. But he heaves a deep sigh. He is definitely grimy. He didn’t bring a change of clothes, of course. And in the mad rush, he hadn’t brought anything for Sabyne either. As it is, she’s in a borrowed nappy and her milky spit-soaked clothes… well, frankly she stinks. 

“You’ll call me as soon as you know something?” He’s looking at Ned now. Man to man. _Imagine if that was your wife in that room over there._

Ned nods in promise. “Go home, Petyr. Get some rest. It’s not a cop-out — you need to keep your strength up for both Sabyne and Sansa.” 

And that is probably what convinced him, in the end. 

* * *

He enters the flat and even though he had been there when it all unfolded like the nightmare that it was, the godsawful mess that greets him still takes his breath away. Sansa’s blood had trailed a long, morbid path from the bathroom to the living room, as the paramedics had needed to move her from the cramped confines of the ensuite. The stench of the blood was already turning foul, the metallic notes hitting his olfactory system like a nasty punch. Petyr swallows the urge to hurl, his heartbeat ratcheting at the bloodbath before him.

Sabyne is already starting to fuss.  

Ros had needed to return home to get ready for work. And as much as he knew he probably needed the help, the time to himself, the time to regroup away from Sansa’s family and strangers is welcome. Petyr places Sabyne down on the flattest part of the couch and hurries to the kitchen, soon working out what to do. The hospital had run out of spare breast milk, but they had given him the tin of formula for free, along with two feeding bottles and some idiot-proof instructions. 

And there he sits now, more or less alone in Sansa’s flat — now more squalor than inner-city studio apartment. A vision, not so fleeting now, of his life without Sansa by his side. Of him bringing up Sabyne without her. 

_Stop it. Stop being so fucking morbid and melodramatic._

But he cannot switch them off now. The images, they just keep coming. Him missing her as Sabyne learns to crawl, to talk, to walk. Him looking for Sansa in every red-headed mother at the playground. Him not knowing what clothes to buy, how hair should be tied, or what to say when his little girl gets into one of those endless quarrels with a best friend. Him missing the touch, the smell, the taste of the only woman he ever wanted to live a grown-up life with.  

And this little girl, growing up without knowing the most amazing woman. Without her mother. 

_As if I’d fucking given up on her already. Shutdafuckup, Petyr._

Slowly, he changes his daughter out of her clothes, wiping her down gently with a warm cloth like he had seen Sansa do many times before. The ensuite is still slippery with blood and he has to forego the bath for now. Mercifully, she drops off to sleep quickly this time, thank fuck.  

And then he gets down on his hands and knees and spends the next hour cleaning like the demon.  

* * *

_Climb, climb, climb back up and out._

Dr Crenshaw.  _“_ Good news, at least. We’ve gotten most of the blood clots out. And we don’t think she’ll need surgery. We’re working to correct the anaemia. That’s our priority now."  

* * *

She blinks slowly, body and eyes still heavy with sleep. The curtains are drawn, but she can tell from the light streaming through the slit between the curtains not quite overlaying that the day is mature and that she had somehow lost… time.

Her throat feels so dry, so dry. Like sandpaper. 

“She’s awake!” squeaks a familiar voice that doesn’t make sense at all. _Arya?_

Another familiar figure. _Mum._

“My girl!” And Catelyn smiles a smile that reaches from her toes and spills out in waves of love overpowering and eternal. Sansa sees her mother holding her wriggling baby. _My girl._   

“Sansa,” breathes Ned, and then he is before her, sweeping her hair from her head and looking so very, very relieved. 

_Petyr._

“What, my darling?” 

_Petyr._

“Oh gods,” wrinkled Arya’s nose. “I think she’s asking for her creepy old boyfriend! Ugh!” 

“Arya!” 

_Petyr. Please. Where is he._

Sansa reaches out suddenly, her hand missing at first, then finding and gripping an arm. Her mother’s. 

“Petyr,” she says again and this time she can hear herself, even if her voice is as weak as a thread. “I need him.” 

“Petyr!” Arya about hollers out the door. “My sister is asking for you!” 

There’s a round of shushing and telling off, and Arya not caring. The familiar sounds of Starks bickering and telling it like it is. 

And then he is _here._

_Petyr!_ And she smiles. And the smile reaches from her toes and spills out in waves of love overpowering and eternal.  

“Hi,” he whispers, his most beloved grey-green eyes shiny and unblinking. 

“Hi,” she whispers back. “I’ve been dreaming of you.” 

He huffs a chuckle then. He gulps hard. And then Sansa watches as his nose starts turning a bright red. He gasps then, desperately trying to swallow the gush of emotions suddenly surging up from a well deep within. 

“Oh gods.” Arya rolls her eyes. “You’re going to ugly-cry now, aren’t you.” 

And as if jinxing the very man, Petyr makes a strange, strangled sound, then a splutter most inelegant before his shoulders start to heave. 

“It’s okay,” murmurs Sansa, reaching out to brush the back of her hand on his face. “I’m here. It’s okay. Ssshhh...” 

But he’s _really_ crying now, huge wracking sobs that shake and shudder his whole being. It’s chaos, it’s powerful. His tears are spilling hot and heavy, deep groans erupting from his throat and past quivering, trembling lips as relief and heartache and love and fear and overpowering joy jostle for space.  

“Arya,” Catelyn beckons, tone uncompromising, “let’s give them some privacy. NOW, please." 

“It’s alright,” Sansa keeps murmuring as her family tiptoes out, so all that’s left behind in this space is just her and the man who has clearly emptied himself for her. She reaches out and strokes his cheek with her fingertips, even though she is so very tired. He catches her hand and presses it hard to his lips, kissing it soundly and with all that he has. 

“I know my timing is shit, my sweetling,” he manages to rasp to her at last. “But at your earliest convenience, will you do me the honour of being my wife?"  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really cannot claim credit for the medical mumbo-jumbo that Dr Au spouts to Dr Crenshaw in the ER. For that, I consulted an actual doctor who knew what the hell to say but also understood how to massage the text so it could be at least halfway understandable to plebes like me. That doctor also took and gave me the image you see at the top of the page and on Tumblr.
> 
> It continually blows me away how very generous people have been to this little writing adventure. I've loved our chats 'offline' and have been blown away by suggestions and Tyndyr-inspired art and personal stories and good laughs. If I could meet each and every one of you reading this, I'd hug you long and tight and buy you a good Australian coffee. (We're good for that. And chocolate.)
> 
> This feels like the final-chapter message — but it's not! Next chapter: the epilogue. And then it's really the end of Tyndyr. But they'll come back in other shapes and forms. That's the plan anyway. ;-)


	31. EPILOGUE

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous."

He stared at her, the seconds falling quiet and soft like virgin sand between them. She stared back, memorising his face anew, a distant, vague sense of astonishment colouring the corners of her mind still — yes, even after all this time. A kind of wonder that what they have is real. 

“Oh Petyr,” she replied at length, grinning as she leaned up to drop a kiss on his most beloved nose before moving down to catch his lips with hers. She thought about rolling her eyes and so she did a little, laughing quietly before she playfully smacked his bum. She watched as his face changed, his beautiful greeny-grey eyes twinkling a little. The look of mock lovestruck awe dissolving now to one of mischief and play and genuine desire.

“Patryck settled in okay? He didn’t kick up a fuss?”

“Patryck’s fine. As soon as Sebbie pointed out the latest Young Einstein kit your brother set up in the living room, he was gone. He’s going to have a _ball_ , what with all the cousins. From the sounds of things, Robb’s already got a string of manly-man activities lined up for the week. I think he’s almost more excited than Little Boy. Oh — Talisa sent her love, of course. Along with some beef _rendang_  for a quick dinner tonight before the flight. She says we can freeze it if we prefer to save it for when we come back instead.” 

And once again, Sansa was reminded of how much more blessed their family has been since Robb, Talisa and their brood of three finally migrated after his trust fund kicked in.

Babysitting _and_ dinner sorted! Score!  

“Which do you prefer?” Sansa asked. “Dinner out tonight? Save the _rendang_ for when we get back?” 

“Or…” Petyr replied, voice dropping to a husk she recognised only too well, “we could dine in right now, and then,” he brushed his nose across her ear so a current of goose pimples ran down her neck, her back, her arm, “we could  _dine in_ quickly later before the flight.”  

He rolled his hips suggestively and Sansa burst out laughing, even as a quiver of excitement ran through her. _Cheek._ He was hamming it up, but she was just as thrilled and giddy as he, to be perfectly honest. A whole ten days away! Without the children, gods love 'em. Such bliss.  

“I think,” she murmured into his mouth and bit his lower lip softly so he groaned. “I think the  _rendang_ can wait.”

“I like the way you think.”

He surged forward suddenly, his hands dropping to her waist to pull her into his hips. The door shut behind them. Almost on auto-pilot, she started moving back towards the stair until she remembered that they were alone in the house.

“Couch?”

“Bench… table… floor… stair… I don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” she grinned and nibbled his ear. “Fuck me on my kitchen bench, Mr Baelish.”

“Language, sweetling!” he chided, then grinned. "Fuck me, _please_." 

Another burst of laughter cut off with an open-mouth kiss, when his tongue plunged her mouth and melded with hers. He tasted the orange-mango juice she just drank and through no words at all, told her _exactly_ how he planned to plumb her depths later. His kiss deepened and she met him play for play, already pulling up his shirt from his pants and working the buttons with frightening precision and methodical ease, as if she’d done this a thousand times before. Which she had. 

They moved half blindly through the hallway, veering right and past the formal dining room and into the family room and kitchen, almost as if in a waltz. He worked the zipper of her dress, only pulling away at the last moment so she could stare him down as she eased the fabric off her shoulders before the rest of her silky-soft dress slithered to the ground. 

Even after all this time, the first sight of her naked curves did things to his breathing. 

He backed her into the kitchen bench until her buttocks met the edge. She was making quick work of his pants; he felt the belt give and then her long fingers were slipping into the back of his boxers, easing everything over and down with single-minded efficiency.

“You know,” he pondered in between fevered kisses, licking, sucking, marking his way down her body, “the kids aren’t home. We don’t have to rush.”

“You’re right,” she murmured and then her breath hitched as his mouth found a nipple. The more sensitive of the two, he knew and smiled as he played. His mouth covered as much of the tip and the flesh as he could take in before he gave a long, hard suck that elicited her first moan of the evening.

So much for not rushing.

She pulled his face back up to hers, soft lips kissing him hard. Her fingers wrapped around his cock, already thickening after that delicious moan he just wrung from her all by his clever self. Her grip was sure and welcome, urgent and swift. Blood poured into his length until it was almost painful, and his face dived to her neck, licking the join to the shoulder and then sucking hard. 

They were going away for ten days. He could mark her all he liked and she’d still have enough time to heal before their next client meeting two long weeks from now. He fully intended to make the most of it.

Her hands were now flush on the kitchen bench and she pulled herself up to sit pretty on it. When they first moved into the Mini Manor at Manly, as they had jokingly called it, it had taken weeks and weeks and _weeks_ to finally test out every new surface. This kitchen bench had been one of the first truly successful ‘points of entry’. The height was fucking perfect, in a manner of speaking. 

He pulled her pink panties down and tossed them over his shoulder, taking in the view of that perfect, perfect cunt — the only one for him, forevermore. His thumb did a slow, sensuous graze from base to sweet rosy tip and he sucked on the pad of his thumb, tasting her juices that signalled her readiness.

“Slow… or fast?”

“Knock me into the middle of next week, Mister.”

Just what he was hoping for.

He watched as she spread those lovely long legs just for him. She rested a foot on one of the bar stools, and he hooked the other over the crook of his arm. And then he slid into her, his soft groan joining hers, feeling the inimitable warmth of her body as he sheathed himself to the hilt. She adjusted her pelvis to take him in completely and he felt her muscles within contract and grip him momentarily in a Hello. 

And when they had both adjusted to each other, he pulled himself out nice and slow — almost all the way out, in fact — before he slammed back into her.

A whimper rewarded him, followed by a rain of kisses on his face. He drove himself into her again, and then once more with feeling. Her sex was growing slick the more he picked up speed — delicious, dirty, _dirty_ sounds of wet flesh grinding into flesh spurring him on all the more. She held him like a cello between her legs, her hands splayed on his back. When he started to hit a particular note repeatedly, he felt her fingers dig into his shoulders, holding him to her even though there was no other spot in the world he'd rather be than here, buried deep inside the most beautiful woman in the world. A gasp from her suddenly, and then her nails were scratching down his back as she tensed inside, as she clawed helplessly, her pelvis now thrusting back against him almost clumsily, so they were colliding faster, harder.  

Then he felt her hands slide down to his arse, now taut and rock-hard in the pursuit of that blinding climax. He felt her nails sink in so his mounting ecstasy was now laced with a sharpish pain that only turned him on more. _Wildcat. Beautiful, otherworldly creature who is mine and only mine_... A mewling tore from her throat, her grip iron and unyielding, but it was only when her angelic lips suddenly swore like the devil that he surrendered all fight and came and came, burying deep, _so_ deep within her that neither of their bodies should feel whole while apart again.  

He made to pull out, determined to bring her to leg-trembling climax as she just did to him. But her hands firm on his buttocks kept him still, her sweet nose nuzzling his neck and breathing him in. 

"S'okay," she soothed, now stroking down his back and over the long thin paths her nails just carved. "I'm happy. Just like this. Stay inside me awhile. I've missed you." 

She unhooked her leg from his arm and wrapped both her legs around his waist. Her long, fair arms followed suit, winding around his neck before she drew him close and kissed him soft and slow and deep. His heart hammered in his chest as he tilted his mouth and claimed her back, revelling in the way she shivered in his embrace. Time disappeared for a full minute. Maybe longer. No one was counting anymore.

How was it even be possible that he could love this woman more now than he did yesterday? And the day before that, and the day before _that_ … all the way until he was back in his Surry Hills man cave nursing an eight-hundred quid bottle of cognac and running a finger down the Tyndyr profile picture of a breathtaking woman with flaming red hair and brilliant blue eyes who had his mother’s first name?  

And yet every day, his heart grew just a little larger for her.

“Come…” He was leading her gently now by her wrist to the couch in the family room. The seat was deep enough so that they could lie side by side and still not fall off. They were losing light in the expansive room but they could still make out the endless sea from the large wraparound windows before them. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore below was rhythmic, though far gentler than their love-making had been just before.

Maybe later, he would use those waves as his metronome.

But for now, they were both on their sides facing each other, his face buried just below her bare breasts. A hand caressed her abdomen, no longer flat after age and two babies. And yet he loved the curve of her little belly even more now. It spoke of life and near loss, of courage immeasurable. Of sacrificial, enduring, powerful love.

“How did the afternoon with your sister go? I never got to hear the rest of that story.”

“That’s right,” Sansa replied and he could hear the amusement in her voice. “Can’t believe I forgot about that. So yes — we met up. And she brought her new toy boy…”

“And?”

“Well… when I say he’s a _boy_ … He’s an artist. And when he isn’t busy feeling all tortured for his art, he’s also a yoga instructor. A _Tantric_ yoga instructor.” 

“HAH! Go on.”

“Long hair, quite a hottie actually. But he talks a bit like Yoda and has this way of referring to others in third-person, like a mystic. Arya is always A Girl, apparently. And he is always A Boy. Like, seriously. Whole conversations of him going, ‘A Girl is fond of bagels this morning.’ ‘A Boy finds himself honoured to meet the oft-mentioned sister of A Girl.'” Sansa snorted delicately.

“A Boy sounds bloody pretentious, actually.”

“I kept thinking how you’d take the piss if you’d been there. Sooooo many opportunities! I was dying. And oh, the kicker?"

“You mean there’s more?"

“Let’s just say my sister can never, EVER call you Dirty Old Man again.” Sansa chuckled and Petyr’s eyebrows arched in interest.

“You mean…”  

“Jaqen is almost as old as you. Just off by a month, I think.”

“HA!” And Petyr slapped his leg in triumph. “Oh she’ll never live it down now!”

“I knew you’d like that last bit especially.”

She dropped a kiss on the top of her head, then ran her fingers through his thick hair fondly. There was much, much more silver through it now, but his hair was still soft to the touch and he was still a very handsome man with a devilish smile that made her lady parts flush in anticipation if he chose to look at her a certain way...  

“You’ll never guess who called me this afternoon before the flight… Varys!”

“Oh gods, Varys?” Sansa laughed, almost disbelieving. "That’s a blast from the past! What does he want?”

“He’s finally, FINALLY leaving L&S for good.”

“He said that ten years ago.”

“Except he’s already quit, apparently. After some explosion or other. Anyway, he’s looking. Wants to know if we want a Creative Director.”

“We already have one.”

“Well, hold that thought. If we expanded to Asia like we were talking about, we could do with someone there.”

“Will he wait that long?”

“We can always ask the question.”

Sansa mulled the question over herself, momentarily lost in thought until she shook her head. _No_. She had promised herself not to think about work. Not these ten precious days... 

“How was Conference?” she asked idly, then face-palmed mentally and sighed. Old habits really did die hard. Working from home so often meant work was life and life was work. All the more so when your co-founder and business partner returned home and to your bed at the end of the day. 

“Today was good but tiring. I’m glad I caught my flight this afternoon but I was cutting it pretty fine, to be honest. Still lots of interest after my plenary session on Thursday, lots of people wanting to catch up before I left. I think we’ll get good leads in the next little while, but I’ve referred them all to Tyrion. I’m turning my phone off this trip, my darling.” A beat. “I bumped into Margaery.”

“Oh?” 

“She just left Husband Number Two.”

“That’s sad. Was it because of Harry again?”

“I didn’t ask.” Petyr slipped a little further down her body and placed a long kiss on her navel. He breathed her in deeply and sighed, contented. No one else for him. Not ever.    

Pablo Buchanan jumped on the couch then, the great big mutt, whereupon both master and mistress commanded in unison for him to get back down. The dog walker already had the key to come in once a day to feed him and take him out for a run. The neighbour knew to get their mail. The answering machine was already turned on. The bags were packed, even though Sansa still had no idea where they were going. 

“I’m sorry about those scratches. Got a little carried away there.”

“Gonna get funny looks at the beach now,” Petyr grinned. “Everyone’s gonna know I keep a wildcat in bed.”

“So we ARE going to Tahiti!”

“Who said anything about Tahiti?”

“Your children. Patryck told me ages ago. And Sabyne told me last night.”

Petyr laughed. “I knew they couldn’t keep a surprise. No, we’re not going to Tahiti.”

“You lied to our children?”

“Only to protect my surprise.”

“You’re incorrigible.” She dropped another kiss on his head. “And I love you, you bad, bad man.”

He slipped his tongue into her navel and she sucked in her tummy out of reflex. His hand stole across her side until he cupped her buttock and squeezed. 

“Lie on your back,” he murmured, eyes growing dark. “I believe I still owe you a toe-curling orgasm.”

“I believe you do.”

Darkness fell over the room and along with it, a kind of hush. Beyond the cliff on which their Mini Manor perched, Manly was starting to light up like twinkle twinkle little stars. The susurration of the sea far below seemed louder in the dusk now, the constancy of the crashing waves an echo of his quiet ministrations on her sex.

Tyrion was right, the bastard. It was one thing to fuck hundreds of women. But to worship and satisfy the same goddess a thousand times over… 

He loved that he could still surprise her. And that she could still surprise him. Even after all these years.

Another moan and her hips were lifting off the couch now. But still he suckled her bud before his tongue dived back into her folds, flicking and licking. He could still taste a little of himself, but a lot more of her. 

He lapped her like a kitty cat, and felt her legs lengthen, point and tense. Her breathing was turning shallow, her sighs high, girly, and airy. Her head was thrown back, eyes screwed shut, and he knew that she was reaching now for that sweet, frustratingly elusive, mind-bending release. She was walking along that razor-thin edge and he knew just how to keep her there. The longer she waited, the greater the crash of the waves. He’d like it very much if he could make her scream. 

“Hhhho…” she whimpered. “Keep it there, more more more more more more more…” Words dying on her lips. She was writhing now, getting incoherent. _Good_. His cock was twitching madly just listening to her. 

Should he finish her off by mouth, by hand, or…

“Come inside me, please… please, please…”

In the words of Arya’s latest toy boy (he of the long hair and tantric sex), A Man does not need to be asked twice.

Petyr entered his wife just when she was coming undone. He felt her walls squeeze him so hard, he gasped. Gods, she was tight and he chose then to drive fully into her so she sobbed his name as she twisted her body. She bucked her hips into him, then clenched hard again as another crest came up and over her. And this time, it was he who cried out with a hoarse shout that took him altogether by surprise. 

The final wave came in with a huge crash, and then it was the rush of the tide sweeping up to the shore... 

They fell against each other at last, soft giggles as their bodies finally relaxed and turned to goo. “Happy Tenth Anniversary, my greatest love,” she sighed happily into the night before turning to kiss him softly.

“And to you, my sweetling. It’s a real privilege to be loved by you.”

And they both continued to live and love most happily ever after. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have loved writing Petyr and Sansa for me and all of you, you gorgeous, GORGEOUS readers. Your generosity of spirit, warm welcome, exuberant encouragement, crazy cheerleading, humour, empathy, outrage, friendship and unstinting support has just been tremendous. I honestly wouldn't have written as consistently as I have, if not for the love you have given me and this work of fan fiction. Thank you for falling in love with Tyndyr. It has been such an honour and pleasure. Consider each and every one of you bear-hugged and soundly kissed on both cheeks, as is customary around these parts.
> 
> Meanwhile...
> 
> Petyr and Sansa will live on! Though perhaps not in quite the same form or setting. Our favourite duo will meet again soon, if I can help it. I've alluded to another Modern PxS in the works, and so I'd like to take this time to spruik... SABBATICAL.
> 
> \------
> 
> After 7 years of marriage, celebrated romance writer Sansa Stark (writing under Alayne Stone) thought she finally had it all: a thriving career, a good postcode, and a fairytale marriage to a childhood sweetheart after kissing an impressive number of toads through her teens.
> 
> But when darling husband Harrold Hardyng announced one day that he would like a break from their marriage, Sansa is devastated and confused. “Is there someone else?” she had wailed, but no. He just wanted to Eat Pray Love his way through Southeast Asia. “Julia Roberts, you know, she spoke to me.”
> 
> It’s month two and Sansa has had it. She will fight for her man like any number of her novels' heroines. Thank god for Margaery Tyrell, bored heiress with connections and an insatiable appetite for shopping and men. Now they’re off to Southeast Asia to stay with one of her friends — one semi-retired Petyr Baelish “with a fucking big house on a tiny island". Will Sansa win back her conscientious, uncoupled man? Or will Southeast Asia bring its own surprising delights? 
> 
> \-----


End file.
